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Ven il Vidtl 


BY 


Belle M. Miller. 

M 

1885 . 



COLUMBUS, O.: 
Hann & Adair. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by 
JULIA A. MILLER, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 







<s>o CQy COowhei^ 

THIS FIRST LITERARY EFFORT IS 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 

MAY IT HELP TO RECALL THE CONSTANT AND GRATEFUL 


LOVE OF HER WHO DEDICATES IT TO YOU 






■ 












































































































































































































;■ 






























































































































Br?BPA6E. 



E deem it unnecessary to offer any apology for putting 


V V this charming little story in print, the manuscript of 
which was found among the Author’s effects after her de- 


cease. 


It was written before her marriage, and in its dedica- 
tion she was as ever mindful of her mother, to whom her 
whole life was a constant devotion. 

Its many beautiful and touching sentiments bespeak 
the admirable qualities of her mind and heart from which 
they, proceeded; while its intrinsic literary excellence gives 
promise of a brilliant future, had the author been permitted 
to reach the full fruition of her rare gift. That these pages 
may assist in preserving fresh in the minds of her many 
friends the memory of one whose life was so full of gentle- 
ness and loving kindness, is the fond wish and hope of her 
sister, 


Julia A. Miller. 


I . 








































































































VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


CHAPTER I. 

There was nothing distinctive about King- 
ston, beyond its name. Every one knows the 
sort of railroad station, which possesses a long, 
narrow platform, a tiny box of a waiting room, 
and a lame station master. Usually, as was 
the case here, a half dozen houses and a black- 
smith shop are scattered near, and, save from 
the smoke from the blacksmith’s chimney, you 
would fancy the populace were sleeping or 
dead. 

To day is a red-letter day for the little station 
master. There are two arrivals — one a slender 
girl in gray, the other, apparently, her mother. 
They are not strangers to the little old man, 
still he had seen nothing like them for a year, 
and what are his eyes good for, if not to see 
that which is directly before them ? 

“ Have none of the Bernards been here to- 
day ?” the girl was asking. 

“ No, ma’am, I can’t say as they have, an’ 
2 


10 


VENI ! VIDI! -? 


I’m sure I must ha’ seed ’em if they had ’a’ 
come.” 

The girl smiled slightly as she looked down 
the quiet road, knowing that a vehicle of any 
sort brought the inhabitants of the few houses 
to the windows, burning with curiosity to 
know who was passing. 

“ When will the stage go over to St. Bene- 
dict?” she continued. 

“ Indeed, ma’am, I can’t say. You see Tim 
he’s gone to a picnic, an’ besides him, there 
ain’t much o’ any one to drive. There’s no 
tellin’ when he’ll get back when he goes to a 
picnic onc’t.” 

The girl glanced around at the dilapidated 
railway maps, fly-adorned calendars, and last 
year’s circus posters, which served to decorate 
the walls of the stuffy little waiting room, then 
asked again : 

“ Isn’t it possible to find some one to take 
us out there ?” 

The old man always looked back on that 
day with pride, for, after prolonged scratching 
of the head and clearing of the throat, he 
originated an idea. 

“Why John, that’s my boy, he kin hitch up 


VENI ! VI DU ? 


11 


and take you over, if you don’t mind ridin’ in 
a spring wagon,” he announced eagerly. 

“ What do you say, mamma?” the girl asked, 
turning to the handsome old lady, who was 
beginning to look annoyed. 

“I am sure, Rachel, you can do as you 
please. For my part, I don’t see how we can 
ride six miles over those rough hills in an open 
wagon,” she answered impatiently. 

The old man hastily assured her it was only 
“ four miles, and it wouldn’t be that fur if it 
wa’n’t fur the hills,” ending with the assur- 
ance that John was a “ good driver, and could 
beat lots of the men ’round there, if he did say 
it himself, as oughtn’t.” 

It was finally decided to accept the proffered 
“ spring wagon,” and in a short time a freckled 
lad drove to the platform in a vehicle, whose 
appearance was more substantial than they had 
expected. After depositing satchels and pack- 
ages, and climbing in, they moved slowly down 
the hill which led from the station. Imme- 
diately after their departure, the train coming 
from the opposite direction from the one on 
which these travelers had arrived, swept past 
the little platform, stopping long enough to 
deposit a single passenger. The boy promptly 


12 


VEN1 ! VI D I ! ? 


halted at the foot of the hill, stretching his 
neck to catch a glimpse of this last’arrival. 

“ I thought I heerd pap a-callin’,” he said, 
in answer to their natural inquiry as to the 
cause of the delay. 

In another moment the author of the be- 
freckled youth’s existence was seen at the top 
of the hill, frantically waiving his arms, and 
shouting “John” with a pair of lungs which 
nature seemed to have created exceptionally 
strong, to atone for the discrepancy in his 
legs. 

John calmly turned around.in his seat, and 
patiently waited until his sire came up with 
them. 

“ You see, ma’am,” gasped John senior, a 
trifle used up by the unusual speed with which 
he had limped down hill, “ ther’s another man 
wants to go over to Bernard’s too, an’ I 
thought, ef you didn’t mind much, he could 
jest go right along here with you. He can set 
in the front seat with John.” 

“ The very idea ! Of course we mind,” the 
mother began, when she was interrupted by 
a whisper, “ Oh, mamma, hush !” and, turning 
quickly in the direction of her daughter’s eyes, 
she saw approaching the vehicle a young man 


VENI! V ID 1 ! ? 


13 


who bore unmistakable indications of a gentle- 
man. 

“ By Jove,” thought the new arrival, as they 
turned toward him, “ this is a windfall ! Why 
didn’t that old fool tell me they were some- 
body ?” 

Coming nearer, he began, “ I beg your par- 
don, madam, for being the cause of stopping 
you. I fear this man’s proposition will be 
unpleasant to you. After telling him I was 
bound for Bernard’s, he rushed wildly after 
you, saying this would be my last chance until 
night,” and he appeared about to turn away, 
as if it were quite out of the question. 

“ You are quite welcome to the vacant seat, 
if you like,” the elder lady returned graciously, 
visibly thawing before the young man’s easy 
manner. “ The wait at the station would be 
very tiresome.” 

“ That’s a charming old lady,” he thought 
as he thanked her and deposited himself and 
his satchel in the front seat. 

“ May I tell you my name is Philip King?” 
he said, after the old horse had once more 
jogged along, leaving the man standing in 
the road, in a state of benign satisfaction, at the 
result of his arrangement. “ Our mutual 


14 


VENI ! VI D I ! / 


friend at the station, who seems to have a 
genius for ordering the minor details of life, 
told me you are Mrs. Dare,” and he smiled as 
he addressed himself to the older lady with a 
decidedly questioning glance in the direction 
of the younger. 

“ Yes,” she replies, smiling pleasantly in 
return. “ My daughter and myself spend 
sometime every summer at Bernard’s, and the 
station master does us the honor to remember 
us.” 

There was a little pause after this, each 
one apparently intent on the beautiful land- 
scape before them. On either side of the 
white road, gleaming with mica, lay waving 
fields of grain, faintly tinged with yellow, as 
the late June sun shone warmly down upon 
it. Beyond the fields on one side rose a low 
range of hills, wild, rocky, barren, forming 
strange contrast to the rich fertility resting 
at their feet. Farther on, there was a break 
in the grizzly barricade, where wound a 
river, looking in the distance like scarcely 
more than a silver thread gleaming in the 
sunlight. 

Mrs. Dare was the first to turn from the 
peaceful scene before them, and remarked : 


VENI ! VI D1 ! ? 


15 


“ We shall not find those hills so delightful 
by and by, when we pass over them. Do you 
see there -where the road winds almost over 
the top of the last one? I declare, Rachel, 
every time I come over this road I make a 
new resolution that this shall be the last time. 
Not that it isn’t pleasant enough, after we are 
once there, but such a journey ! It positively 
requires a whole summer to rest.” 

All this was said with a little flutter of the 
delicately-gloved hands, and a sort of bird- 
like movement of the head from one side to 
the other, as the bright blue eyes flashed 
alternately from the young man to her 
daughter. 

Rachel had all this time kept her face turned 
resolutely toward the hills, leaving only a 
very fine profile for Philip’s admiring gaze. 
She only smiled in answer to her mother’s 
remark, giving the young man a glimpse 
of a remarkably fine pair of eyes, as she 
redirected her gaze to the landscape 1 . 

“ I’ll be hanged if she isn’t pretty !” he 
thought. “ I w T ish she’d speak.” 

“ My husband once had an intimate friend 
whose name was the same as yours,” remarked 
Mrs. Dare, who evidently had a decided re- 


V luX I ! VI D1 ! — ? 


1 (> 

pugnance for silence. “ He was a charming 
man. I wonder if it could be possible that 
you are any way related to him ?” 

“ That was my father’s name,” and the 
young mail turned toward her with an eager 
boyish manner. “If John Dare is your 
husband, he was undoubtedly the Philip King 
you speak of. I am always glad to meet an 
old friend of my father’s; won’t you shake 
hands with me, now that we know each 
other?” as he stretched out his hand with a 
pleased smile, which won the gentle little 
lady’s friendship on the spot. 

“ Dear me, how fortunate !” and she shook 
hands with him delightedly. “Rachel, did 
you ever know anything so lucky? I do love 
to know who people are, and to think it was 
the merest accident that we found out, too ! 
Its exactly like an incident which occurred 
once on our way to the White Mountains. 
Don’t you remember, Rachel, that young man 
who was so attentive to us after the accident? 
What was his name? was it Richards? No, 
it couldn’t have been, for that was the other 
man’s name.” 

“ I don’t remember his name, mamma,” 
Rachel answered, rather absently. “ It don’t 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


17 


seem to me there is much similarity between 
the two cases.” 

“Now does’nt it? I must say I think its 
remarkable; not that Mr. King looks at all 
like this Mr. — what was his name? — for Mr. 
Kingis tall and slender, and the other man was 
short and stout. Besides I am very certain 
he had red hair.” 

Philip was rejoicing in the fact that Miss 
Dare had finally spoken, and wondering what 
he could do that she would be obliged to 
speak again, for her silence unaccountably 
irritated him. Her mother talked a great deal, 
discovering numerous mutual acquaintances 
as they proceeded, while the daughter took 
apparently no interest in the rather one-sided 
conversation, save when appealed to. 

The road grew rough and stony as the old 
horse moved slowly up the hill, and Mrs. 
Dare was in a state of constant agitation as 
she tried to think what they should do if the 
horse would suddenly stop and the wagon roll 
to the foot again. 

“ This yer horse ain’t the rollin’ kind,” the 
boy insisted, finding Philip’s efforts to allay 
her fears were vain. u He don’t do nothin’ 
like that, ’cept to kick the bottom out of the 


18 


IENI! VI DI! 


wagon sometimes, when yon hit him with the 
whip, kind o’ suddent like.” 

The young man smiled at this Job’s com- 
forter, and moving his head slightly in Miss 
Dare’s direction, caught a bright gleam of 
merriment as she glanced toward him, 
leaving him with the pleasant sensation 
that they knew something the others did 
not. 

At the top of the hill, while the boy rested 
his horse for a moment, Philip saw a bunch of 
early laurel, shining white among the brown 
trunks of the trees, and bringing it to Rachel, 
presented it with an almost diffident air, which 
surprised himself. She looked steadily at 
him as she thanked him with a gracious 
smile, but that was all. 

“ That girl can talk if she wants to ; I hope 
she will want to some time soon,” was his 
mental comment as he reseated himself. 

Just when he was beginning to think a 
wagon like this wasn’t such a bad thing after 
all, they turned a sharp curve, onto a level 
road, and Mrs. Dare exclaimed : 

“ Thank goodness ! there is Bernard’s at 
last!” 

“ I am in luck !” declared Philip, as their 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 19 

youthful coachman steered them safely up the 
long lane. 

A large old-fashioned red-brick house stood 
before them, the hall door dividing the front, 
and opening onto a wide porch which ex 
tended along two sides of the house. The 
pillars of the porch, and a large portion of the 
house itself were covered with a profusion of 
American ivy and trumpet vine, heavy with 
crimson blossoms. 

From the porch there extended a green 
slope, dotted here and there with forest trees, 
down to the river, which, by a convenient 
turn, formed two of the boundaries of the 
place. On the opposite bank the hills arose 
again, covered with a mass of ever-varying 
green. Now and then the solid gray rock was 
bare, protruding itself among the wild verdure. 

Away down the river a spire could be seen 
on one of the hilltops, and rings of smoke 
were ascending in the clear air. Back of 
these a higher range was visible, dimly out- 
lining their huge forms against the perfect 
blue of the June sky. 

They had only driven half way up the lane 
when the bark of a large Newfoundland an- 
nounced their arrival. 


20 


VENI ! V1DI ! ? 


A stout, motherly old lady appeared at the 
doorway, and, seeing them approach, bustled 
toward them, shining with good nature from 
the top of the smooth head to the hem of the 
blue calico gown. 

“ Bless my heart, Ellen,” she called back to 
a pretty girl who had followed her rather tim- 
idly to the door, “if here ain’t Mrs. Dare and 
Miss Rachel ; and Mr. Armstrong did come, 
after all ! Why no, it ain’t Mr. Armstrong 
neither.” 

By this time the old horse had reached the 
wooden steps which served as carriage stone, 
and its occupants alighted, Mrs. Dare perform- 
ing the ceremony of introduction, perceiving 
Mrs. Bernard’s surprise oil seeing a stranger 
with them. Philip was too busy taking in the 
minor details of the landscape, where he saw 
material for a dozen pictures, to explain himself. 

“ I’m powerful glad to see you,” announced 
the old lady heartily, “ but I didn’t look for 
any of you till to-morrow.” 

“ When no one met us. at the station I sup- 
posed you had not received my last letter,” 
Rachel said. “ We are here, at any rate, and 
you will have to make the best of us,” she 
added, with a little laugh. 


VF.NI ! VIDI ! ? 


21 


With this, Philip remembered his manners, 
and explained that he, too, had found it more 
convenient to come to-day, murmuring some- 
thing about a friend coming part of the jour- 
ney with him. 

u That don’t make one bit of difference, only 
we’d a sent for you ef we’d know’d it. But 
come in the house ! Look at me a keepin’ you 
standin’ out here as ef I didn’t want you to 
come in,” and she led the way as she spoke. 

“ You can’t make me believe that is Ellen 
standing in the doorway,” Mrs. Dare said as 
they stepped onto the porch, “for the child 
has grown so tall.” 

“Yes it is,” answered Ellen’s mother, de- 
lighted ; “ I said you’d think that, didn’t I, 
Ellen ? She’s been over to Putnam to school 
this year. Why don’t you come and speak to 
the folks, Ellen ?” 

By this time Ellen had overcome her tim- 
idity sufficiently to bow to Philip and offer 
her hand to the Dares. 

The travelers were ushered from the wide 
hall, which divided the house in halves, into 
a large room, bright and airy, which Mrs. Ber- 
nard called the parlor. Old-fashioned hair- 
cloth furniture stood stiffly about on the huge 


22 


VEN 1 ! VI DI! ? 


flowered Brussels carpet. In the corner by 
the window was a handsome new piano, which 
Mrs. Bernard exhibited with much pride, ex- 
plaining that “ Ellen had learned to play over 
to Putnam.” 

They were assembled here only a few mo- 
ments, for Mrs. Dare declared herself “ tired 
out of her life,” and Ellen accompanied them 
to their rooms, her mother explaining “she’d 
go herself, but she was gittin’ so stout she 
didn’t climb more ’an she had to.” 

Rachel’s and her mother’s rooms were ad- 
joining, and Philip’s was opposite, their pretty 
little guide telling them that “ mother had 
given him the room back of Mr. Armstrong’s, 
for she was hoping Mr. Armstrong would 
change his mind and come after all.” 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


23 


CHAPTER II. 

Philip entered the chamber assigned to 
him, to find the same neatness and precision 
prevailing which reigned below. The bare, 
white walls, the clean rag carpet here made 
the gorgeous Brussels carpet down stairs wan- 
der before his eyes as a positive luxury. The 
bed, piled high with feathers, stood in one 
corner of the large room, covered with a gay 
quilt, fancifully pieced with red and green. 
Philip found himself mechanically wondering 
if the initials M. B. in the center of it were 
meant for Mary Bernard, or possibly Martha. 
“ She looks like a Martha,” he mused, and 
then laughed at his own curiosity. 

In another corner of the chamber stood a 
high chest of drawers, a small oval mirror 
adorning the top. Besides these important 
but scarcely ornamental articles, a wash-stand 
and several chairs constituted the furniture of 
the room. 

Philip groaned as he stood grimly surveying 
this interior, then crossing quickly to the open 
window opposite, drew back the muslin cur- 
tain and looked down on the quiet scene 
below. As he stood, the shade of dissatisfac- 


24 


VENI! VI D I ! 


tion, which had arisen to his face during his 
inspection of the room, quickly disappeared, 
leaving in its place enthusiastic admiration. 

“ I’ll be hanged if this isn’t worth living 
for a month or two in such a room,” he niut- 
.tered. “ The place won’t look bad after my 
traps come. It’s clean and airy, and we 
couldn’t say that much for that place in Ver- 
mont last summer, and we thought we were 
in clover then. That was a pretty little girl 
who brought us up stairs.” 

While justifying the room to himself, he 
had opened his satchel and began the task of 
ridding himself of the dust accumulated during 
his day’s travel, wondering how long it would 
take that old man at the station to send over 
the baggage. 

Philip King’s father had made a fortune in 
coal and iron, and it had been his fondest hope 
that his only offspring should walk in the path 
he had marked out. Fortunately for both, he 
had died while Philip was still a lad, for his 
son had neither taste nor inclination for busi- 
ness pursuits. 

From his mother, who had lived but a few 
months after his birth, he inherited a fondness 
for art, and finding himself possessed of the 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


25 


means to indulge this taste, and no longer any 
one to dictate to him, he cultivated his artistic 
talent industriously. To his credit, be it said, 
he really worked, and in consequence whereof 
was successful. His pictures were accepted 
at the academy, and found ready sale. He 
often declared they sold simply because he 
did not need the money, “ while lots of poor 
devils, who painted better pictures, were dying 
of starvation.” He was accustomed to going 
and coming exactly when he pleased and as 
he pleased, and perhaps the fact that no human 
being expected anything of him had served to 
develop a rather decided line of selfishness, 
which, under different circumstances, might 
have been avoided. Handsome, clever, good- 
natured, and, above all, rich, small wonder he 
was a favorite. To be sure, he was a little 
uncertain, and hard to secure, but that only 
served to make people doubly glad when he was 
very safe in their clutches. There is nothing 
that makes a man quite so popular as a little 
glamour spread over his movements. For the 
rest he was impulsive, and usually acted upon 
the first impulse, which happily, as yet, had 
never carried him far out of the road. Possi- 
bly he had received a trifle more adulation 
3 


26 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


than was quite healthful, but then who knows 
exactly where to draw the line. 

The Bernard’s advertisement for summer 
boarders had accidentally met his eye in 
glancing idly over the Times , and sitting 
down answered it immediately. Then fear- 
ing he would change his mind, came a day 
before the one appointed. 

“ I can surely stand it a week,” he told 
himelf as he brushed his hair that evening, 
“with two such pretty girls in the house.” 

Across the hall, Mrs. Dare was endeavoring 
to persuade Rachel to express intense delight 
that Mr. King was to be one of the house- 
hold. “For you know,” she insisted, “it 
would have been frightfully stupid without 
Dick. Though why he couldn’t have come 
here as well as he could go to the White 
Mountains, I don’t see,” and she sent a 
keen little glance after Rachel as she left 
the room. 

The apartments on this side of the house 
were much more luxurious than that which 
had clouded Philip’s brow a moment ago. 
The Dares had added various articles from 
time to time until the rooms had begun to 
wear quite a furnished appearance. Very 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


27 


pretty paper covered the wall, and a quite 
presentable ingrain carpet was on the floor. 
“ When our pictures and ornaments come,” 
Rachel was thinking, “ the rooms will really 
be quite pretty. I didn’t know it was so 
pretty here,” moving to the window and 
standing for a time gazing down on the river, 
where the afternoon sun was throwing long 
shadows. 

How peaceful it seemed here ! She felt 
that one had little to wish for when the 
trouble and noise of city life were left behind 
them. How long it had been since that first 
year! She was a frail little thing then, and 
only nurse and Dick were with her ; she 
smiled as she remembered how her father re- 
fused to believe it was she when she came 
home so strong and happy. „ 

After that she had always come here for a 
part of the summer, spending the remaining 
part at some fashionable watering place, 
Mrs. Dare was able to see the wisdom of this, 
although not her own arrangement. Rachel 
looked young and pretty after her sojourn in 
the country, and enjoyed society with a zest 
that took well. Other girls were tired then, 
and besides, Rachel’s best clothes were still 


28 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


fresh. So after the first year the mother 
made no objection to the girl’s project. 

They would miss Dick this year, for he 
had always been with them before. Dick was 
aunt Anna’s stepson, and Rachel’s lifelong 
slave. But a week ago things had come to a 
final termination; she told him her refusal 
was conclusive, and when he declined to be- 
lieve her, lost her temper and quarreled with 
Dick the peaceful, who, it must be told, had 
a great many disagreeable remarks to make 
in return. Before she had quite recovered 
her surprise that the worm had turned, he 
left for the White Mountains with Aunt 
Anna. 

Rachel drummed a little on the window sill 
as she remembered how useful Dick had 
always been when they were here, “but then 
here’s Mr. King, and I daresay he will make 
himself quite as agreeable, and as mamma 
says, it is a comfort.” 

At this moment Tim, who had evidently 
returned from the picnic, drove up the lane 
with the luggage, and the next half hour was 
spent in changing their traveling gowns and 
rendering themselves generally presentable 
for supper; for primitive hours were main- 


VENI! VID1 ! r 


29 


tained in the old-fashioned farm house, and 
every one supped promptly at six. 

Rachel took more pains with her toilette 
that evening than she would have cared to 
acknowledge. 

“Yes, I think I can stand it two weeks,” 
thought Philip as she swept into the dining- 
room, the black lace gown displaying to the 
best advantage her pale, cameo face. “ Jove, 
what eyes!” as she flashed her gray orbs full 
upon him, smiling good evening. 

Then the father of this quiet household en- 
tered, shaking hands with them all, and telling 
them he was happy to have them here, w T ith a 
courteous hospitality which surprised Philip. 
He expressed himself peculiarly, his French 
accent giving the decidedly American idioms 
an unfamiliar sound. He kissed Ellen as he- 
passed her, and looked as though he would 
have kissed his busy wife, but she was hurry- 
ing into the kitchen, on culinary thoughts 
intent, and did not see him approach her. 

Henry Bernard felt a great admiration for 
his wife’s capabilities. He proudly boasted 
that it was a difficult problem, indeed, which 
her practical brain could not solve. His lands 
grew broad, and he was not only willing, but 


30 


VENI ! VIDI ! / 


glad, to tell that it was her active thrift and 
prudence which had materially added to his 
possessions. 

Still there was a foreign element which 
never became quite familiar. He would watch 
her with a curious, amused expression as she 
moved from cellar to attic, and from attic to 
cellar again, never tiring while there was still 
a task before her. His little French mother 
had been so different, and he smiled, when his 
eye rested on Ellen, whom he fancied was like 
her. He could remember her moving quietly 
through these same rooms, for his father had 
lived here and tilled these lands before him. 

They were all gone now. Gaston had been 
last, and Henry Bernard drew a little sigh of 
content when he reflected that Gaston’s son 
had never felt the lack of a parent’s care in 
this his uncle’s kindly household. A tall, 
broad-shouldered fellow he had grown to be, 
grave and simple-hearted, grateful for the 
tender affection they had always shown him. 
For with all her duties, Martha Bernard could 
find time “to dawdle the children a little,” as 
she expressed it. 

Her summer boarders were a source of ac- 
tual delight to her. It was a gratification to 


VENI ! VI D1 ! 


31 


? 

have her culinary skill duly appreciated, and it 
certainly paid well. Besides the Dares, she 
usually had an artist or two, for the beauty of 
the country was well known, and now and 
then a clergyman would come for a fortnight 
or so. 

“ Are the daisies blooming so early, Ellen ?” 
Rachel asked when she saw a large bunch of 
them adorned the table. “ Last year they 
were much later.” 

“ They are in bloom on the cliff ; don’t you 
remember they are always early there ?” Ellen 
answered. 

“ Sure enough ! I had forgotten. We must 
go after supper and gather some,” and she 
smiled at Ellen, who was sitting next her. 

“ My dear,” her mother said, turning from 
Mrs. Bernard, whom she had been regaling 
with a minute account of their journey, “ I am 
certain you are too tired to row across the 
river this evening. You always fancy yourself 
actually muscular when you come here.” 

“ May I not row you, Miss Dare?” Philip 
asked eagerly from across the table. “ I will 
take very good care of them, Mrs. Dare, I 
promise you.” 

u No, I think you had all better wait until 


32 


VENI! VI D I ! — ? 


to-morrow ; there is so much danger of malaria 
on the river, when one is tired, and I am cer- 
tain Rachel doesn’t need those daisies this 
evening.” 

“ Very well then, to-morrow,” and Rachel 
looked at Ellen as if she were the only other 
person to be considered. 

“ I hope that arrangement is not made with 
the intention of leaving me out. If it is, I 
object on the spot ; may I not go to-morrow?” 
and he leaned forward almost anxiously, as he 
smiled across at her. 

Rachel looked at him a second gravely, al- 
most critically, he fancied*, before she replied. 

“ Certainly you may go if you like. We 
will start quite early, and it’s something of a 
climb to the top of the cliff.” 

“ Climbing doesn’t frighten me. That is 
one thing I can do well, and you certainly 
will not go before breakfast, will you?” his 
determination rising as he saw a faint shadow 
of objection in her face. 

“ No, not before breakfast ; mamma objects 
to that,” she answered rather indifferently, 
and turning to Mr. Bernard spoke in praise of 
the strawberries he handed her. 

They sat on the porch that evening, when 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


33 


supper was finished, and by and by when 
Henry Bernard rose, remarking “ he beliefed 
he’d get his pipe,” Philip followed him to the 
west side of the long porch, and smoked with 
him. The old man’s quaint simplicity was 
charming, and Philip listened with an inter- 
est which surprised himself, to the account of 
his fields and his grain, his wife and his 
daughter. u That’s all that’s left now,” he 
said softly. “ Father, mother, all the brothers 
and sisters are gone long ago.” 

There was a little silence after this, and the 
old man sat with one arm across his knees, 
supporting the elbow of the other with the 
palm of his hand. The moon had risen as 
they sat here, and the young man was think- 
ing that. nothing more could be desired in the 
landscape, now that it was covered with this 
soft light. 

There was a little stir on the front porch, 
and soon after some one softly struck a few 
chords on the piano. “ It seemed as if the 
heavens had laid on earth a kiss,” Rachel 
sang, and for a little while it seemed to Philip 
it was the voice of the moonlight itself, so 
gently, so sweetly did it blend with the 
radiance without. 


34 


IENI! V1DI ! . 9 


Presently she finished, and he stirred un- 
easily as he heard her move quietly from the 
shadow of the window, and saw a long shade 
fall across the floor, as she passed out on to 
the porch again. Rising he strolled slowly 
down to the river ; Henry Bernard's praise of 
the song annoyed him. He did not want the 
effect destroyed so soon. 

They were entering the house when he re- 
turned ; he had heard Mrs. Dare’s voice de- 
clare the dew was falling, as he came up the 
path. Rachel said good-night soon after, and 
while she waited in the hall for the candle 
Ellen had gone to* fetch, Philip approached 
and said : 

“Let me thank you, Miss Dare, for the en- 
joyment your singing gave me. Your voice 
is the sweetest I have ever heard.” 

“ I am glad you were pleased,” she said, 
coolly accepting his unqualified praise in a 
manner that rather stunned him. 

u I hope you will sing often,” he went on ; 
“ one could be satisfied with country life for- 
ever if they could hear a voice like yours every 
day.” 

“ Yes ?” she asked, calmly as before. Plainly 
he could bring no color to the pale face in this 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


35 


way. “ Certainly I will sing often ; I am fond 
of singing.” 

With this Ellen came with the candles, and 
Philip found himself a trifle impatient at the 
interruption. 

“Thank you, Ellen. Good -night, Mr. 
King. Coming mamma?” and a moment later 
he was reaching out his hand for his own 
candle. 

Ellen’s brown eyes were lifted for an in- 
stant to his own as he said good - night, and 
the look of admiration with which he re- 
turned her glance, sent a flood of color to her 
dimpled cheeks. 

“ Good night,” he said again, extending his 
hand, but Ellen had gone and failed to see 
this mark of civility. 

“ What a pretty child that is,” he mused as 
he ascended the stairs, and as he entered his 
room : “ Good heavens, how that girl can 
sing.” 


3 6 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


CHAPTER III. 

The next morning at eight, Philip came 
slowly down stairs, wondering whether his 
neighbors across the hall w,ere still slumber- 
ing. As he walked out on the porch where 
they had been seated the evening before, he 
saw a boat coming across the rivei. He 
dropped into a chair, lazily wondering where 
they came from and what time they had 
breakfast in this uncivilized part of creation. 
“ How well that girl rows,” he thought, as 
the boat drew nearer. Just then Mrs. Ber- 
nard came hurrying through the hall. 

“Ah, good morning, Mr. King. I expect 
you’re just as hungry as can be. Mrs. Dare 
has her breakfast at half-after eight, but I’ll 
just go right back and give you yours now.” 

“ No, indeed, thanks,” Philip answered, “I 
prefer to wait and take breakfast with the 
others.” 

“With the others!” Mrs. Bernaid repeated, 
laughing. “ There haint only Mrs. Dare. 
Look there ! Them girls had their breakfast 
two hours ago.” 

Philip turned in the direction she pointed, 
and found the boat had reached the bank, 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


37 


and its occupants were busied in fastening it 
to the stake. A moment later they had 
turned and walked toward the house, and 
Philip saw to his surprise they were Rachel 
and Ellen. 

“ You are early birds,” he cried, advancing 
to meet them. “Did you go without me? 
Was this really the daisy expedition?” and 
he looked decidedly crestfallen as he saw 
their baskets filled with marguerites. “ I 
hoped you would have remembered me, 
Ellen.” 

“ I didn’t forget you,” Ellen began, thor- 
oughly distressed, “only — ” 

“ It was my fault, Mr. King,” Rachel inter- 
rupted. “ I fancied you would prefer sleep to 
a jaunt like this. Ellen suggested that we 
wait until you awoke, but I wouldn’t wait, for 
the dew would have been gone then, and see, 
that’s half the beauty,” handing him a bunch 
sparkling with the tiny drops which still 
covered them. 

“You were right not to wait for me, but 
wrong to suppose I preferred sleep. I was 
sleeping very little after day-break, for the 
poultry made such an outrageous noise I was 
tempted to get up and stuff cotton in my ears.” 


38 


VEN I ! VIDI! ? 


And he spoke a trifle impatiently, evidently 
piqued that they had gone without him. 

Rachel laughed a little. “ You will become 
accustomed to country sounds presently, and 
will never notice them. When you eat some 
of the delicious chicken for breakfast, you will 
not think the noise so unbearable. There is 
mamma now,” as Mrs. Dare appeared in the 
doorway ; “ you will not have long to wait.” 

“ Ah, Mr. King,” Mrs. Dare began, when 
they came nearer, have you also caught the 
spirit of early rising ? It is positively the most 
trying thing in this world to one’s nerves to 
have people getting up at such unearthly 
hours of the morning. I am sure I can’t see 
what’s the use of it, and it makes the day so 
dreadfully long, especially in a place like this. 
Now, you must admit it makes the day jright- 
fully long,” and the well-shaped head, with its 
elaborately arranged gray hair, was turned to 
one side, while the blue eyes looked at him 
for an answer. 

“ I fear the old lady is a coquette,” Philip 
thought, as he returned, smiling: 

“You are attributing more virtues to me 
than are quite necessary. Early rising is not 
numbered in my catalogue. I am obliged to 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


39 


confess I was still dreaming while Miss Dare 
was enjoying the morning air.” 

a Oh, you were!” (“Was she relieved?” 
he asked himself.) “ Well, I must say I’m 
happy to know you are not going to give her 
scandalous conduct any encouragement. Dick 
is an early riser, and those three would some- 
times tramp for hours before respectable people 
thought of leaving their beds. I am delighted 
to have some one to take breakfast with me,” 
she added, leading the way into the dining- 
room . 

Philip stood aside, hoping Rachel would 
pass in, but she did not notice his movement, 
and, turning from them, stood leaning over 
the railing. 

She was looking well this morning; the 
exercise had brought a faint flush to her face, 
and she wore a little triumphant air that the 
young man failed to understand. That break- 
fast lasted a long time, he thought, although, 
as Rachel had told him, the broiled chicken 
was delicious. He feared she would be gone 
when they had finished, or, at least, change 
her position, and it was an extremely graceful 
one. It was only that ‘she added a charm to 
the landscape that he cared to go again where 


40 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


she was, he assured himself, for she had cer- 
tainly taken no trouble to be more than civil 
when he was with her. Perhaps it was her way 
though, and he glanced at the flowers she had 
given him, which were drooping a little in his 
button-hole. “ The mother is not antagonis- 
tic, at any rate,” he continued, as the little lady 
chatted away, requiring few answers, as she 
had. the conversation all on her side of the 
table. He reminded her so of his father, she 
was telling him ; “ I knew him when he was 
just about your age. Really I can’t tell you 
what a handsome man he was then, though I 
was saying to Rachel last night it’s remark- 
able how much you look like him. I met 
your mother several times, to ; I remember 
distinctly how she looked on her bridal trip. 
She was a very pretty girl. Of course she was 
older than I was. I don’t believe I know 
which you look most like, your father or your 
mother,” and she surveyed him with a charm- 
ing little air of criticism. “ Now, your nose 
is as much like lier’s as can be, and she had 
exactly such eyes. But, then, you know your 
father also had blue eyes. Do you remember 
your father?” 

“Oh, yes. Very well indeed. I was quite 


VENI ! VIDI! ? ' 


41 


fifteen when he died. Shan’t I give you some 
more toast?” he asked, with a vain attempt 
to hurry matters a little. 

“Thank you, not another bit,” but I would 
like some marmalade, just a little. Thanks. 
Now let me tell you a peculiar circumstance 
which occurred once when your father was at 
our house. Mr. Dare laughs every time he 
thinks of it. It always annoys me, too ; you 
never saw such a man to enjoy a joke, no 
matter how ancient it is. You can fancy how 
old this is, when I tell you Rachel was just 
six months old, and — ” 

“ I’m afraid you liain’t made out your 
breakfast,” Mrs. Bernard interrupted, enter- 
ing hastily as Rachel reached that tender 
age. “Pshaw! you aint eat nothing at all. 
What’ll I get for you?” and she looked really 
distressed that the last crumb had not disap- 
peared. 

“Not a thing, unless Mr. King will have 
another roll. No ? Indeed, the breakfast 
was very nice. I don’t know when I have 
eaten anything half so delicious. We never 
see such cream in the city ; the coffee is so 
much better with it.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Dare ! I’m just ashamed to 
3 


42 


VENI ! VIDI ! -.? 


have you talk about that there coffee. There 
was a fellow here last week, an’ he had some 
new-fangled coffee pots to sell, an’ he said, 
says he, ‘ It’s tumble old-fashioned to use 
that coffee pot you’re a usin’, and it don’t 
make the coffee half as good as this here un’ 
of mine. You just give me your’n an’ a half 
a dollar to boot, an’ you can have this one,’ 
an’ a whole lot more stuff like that, an’ fool 
like I believed him. We haint had a good 
cup o’ coffee sence. I was agoin’ to get an- 
other pot before you got liefe, but I haint had 
a chance yet. I’ll send down to St. Benedict 
this very day, when Ben goes to the postoffice. 
Henry he just laughed at me ; he don’t be- 
lieve in peddlers.” 

In the midst of this Philip made his escape, 
but Rachel was gone, and the place where 
she had been standing had a singularly vacant 
appearance, as though something which had 
always been there was missing. The railing 
was warm when he touched it. “ She stood 
here a long time,” he thought. How quiet it 
was ! The silence rather oppressed him 
when he thought of it. He could hear a man 
shouting to his team as he passed down the 
long furrow of corn. But the sound grew 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


43 


fainter, and Philip mechanically bent his 
head to listen until it was quite gone. 

After awhile the noise came slowly back, 
and he could see the heads bobbing up and 
down between the green stalks. It aroused 
him to a sense of industry. How much time 
he had wasted that this man had improved. 
“ If artists worked at their easels as hard as 
farmers at their plows, we would have better 
pictures in consequence. I think I’ll see 
what the old lady has for me in the way of a 
studio,” and he re-entered the dining-room 
where the two were still conversing, to the 
apparent gratification of a neat-looking 
girl, who was carrying away the breakfast 
things. 

“We have been talking about you, Mr. 
King,” Mrs. Dare said, as he opened the door. 
“ You should never leave two women alone 
together; they are certain to talk.” 

“ I feel that my reputation is safe in your 
hands,” he answered smiling. “ I am sure 
you would only say kind things.” 

She gave him a keen little glance before 
she replied : “ Not always, but in this case 

it happens to be not unkind. We were saying 
it was fortunate you were here, for we should 


44 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


have missed Dick very much more without 
you.” 

“Ahem,” Mrs. Bernard coughed. - “Mary 
Ann, you just hurry up with them dishes ; its 
perfectly scandalous the way you stand.” 

“ That infernal Armstrong again !” Philip 
thought. “ It’s getting to be too much like 
dead men’s shoes to be exactly agreeable.” 

“ 1 They also serve who only stand and 
wait,’ ” he quoted aloud. “ It’s something to 
know that one is able to fill a small part of a 
vacuum.” 

“ Oh, quite a large part,” said Mrs. Dare 
politely. “You see Dick is sister Anna’s 
step-son, although he really could not be 
fonder of us all if he were really related to us. 
Now could he, Mrs. Bernard?” 

“ No indeed,” she responded, “ especially 
Miss Rachel.” 

“ I havn’t a doubt of.it,” said Philip rather 
dryly. “ By the way, I think I know Mrs. 
Armstrong, although I have never had the 
pleasure of meeting her son.” 

“ I dare say you do,” Mrs. Dare said, with- 
a quick little nod. Anna positively knows 
every one worth knowing.” 


VENI! VID1 ! 1 


45 


“ How fortunate then I know her, for not 
to know her ‘ would argue myself unknown.’ ” 

“ Sure enough, I didn’t think of that,” 
and she gave a pleasant little laugh as she 
picked up her book, and prepared to leave 
the room. 

“ Mrs. Bernard, I have not seen the studio 
you were good enough to promise me. This 
beautiful country makes me feel like work,” 
Philip said, after he had opened the door for 
Mrs. Dare. 

“ Now, that’s so, I havn’t ; come right along 
with me an’ I’ll show you,” and she led the 
way up stairs with as much alacrity as was 
consistent with her bulk. 

Philip’s gentle courtesy had pleased Martha 
Bernard, and instead of taking him up to the 
attic where other artists had gone before him, 
she led the way down the wide hall, and 
opened a door next to the room Philip already 
occupied. 

“ This was my little Georgie’s room ; he 
died six years ago this fall,” she said simply, 
as they stepped into the little square room. 

“ I never give no artist this here room be- 
fore, because they al’ays dab things up so, ’an 
have so many greasy rags an’ things lyin’ 


46 


VENIt VIDI ! - — / 


round over the floor ; but you don’t look like 
one of that kind.” 

“ I may prove worse than any of them,” he 
laughed, as he glanced around the room. 
“ Really I am afraid to undertake to keep this 
carpet clean. What would you say if I asked 
yon for that space in the hall, by the front 
window,” he said, as a bright idea suddenly 
struck him. “ There is no clean carpet there 
to spoil, and I have some curtain stuff with 
me that I can draw across there to separate it 
from the rest of the hall. I am positively 
pining for that square north window.” 

“ Just suit yourself,” she answered, laughing 
at his beseeching tone. “ It don’t matter to 
me which you take. I’ll send Mary Ann up 
to help you,” and she closed the door of the 
room she had opened, with a little sigh of re- 
lief, at this new arrangement. 

In a little while he had a studio, which he 
surveyed with infinite satisfaction. Not a 
mere make-shift of a studio in which to work 
for a few days, but an elaborate atelier. 

Philip’s intimates laughed at the traps with 
which he always encumbered himself, but he 
fancied they were an aid to industry, and they 
were certainly a comfort. He was thinking 


VENI ! VID1 ! ? 


47 


of this as lie stood looking at the result of 
his labor late that afternoon. “ Nothing could 
be easier to carry than these curtains and 
rugs,” he answered himself, “and as for the 
gimcracks, if they are only tumbled in among 
these soft things they seldom break.” 

Mrs. Bernard had given him a table and a 
couple of old high-backed chairs ; besides 
these, the rich Persian hangings, the thick 
rugs which half covered the oiled floor, the 
bright cushions and scarfs and a few pieces of 
bric-a-brac were his own. And they thor- 
oughly bespoke the fact that Philip knew how 
best to use his wealth to gratify his tastes. 

“I’ll do that little bit this evening!” he 
exclaimed, snatching up a brush, and turning 
from the window to the blank canvas. “ I 
think old Steve would like that.” ' 

He had scarcely more than pressed the 
colors on to the palatte, than Rachel’s voice 
arose from the parlor below, singing some 
weird melody in a minor key, echoing 
strangely through the silent house. Philip 
actually dropped the brush in his astonish- 
ment, and listened eagerly until she had 
finished. 

“Heavens!” he exclaimed, when the last 


48 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


note had died away, “ what a voice ! I 
wonder if she’d care if I should go down 
stairs.” 

He evidently decided she would not, for he 
immediately pushed back his easel, and went 
down to her. She was singing again, and did 
not turn when he entered ; and he dropped 
into the nearest chair to listen to the perfect 
flood of melody. Presently the song was 
ended, and still she gave no indication that 
she knew, he was there, but sat running her 
fingers lightly over the keys. 

Miss Dare,” said Philip coming up to her 
rather suddenly, and speaking in a quick, 
eager voice, “ do you know you sing like an 
angel ?” 

No,” she answered briefly with a slow 
smile, but without moving even her eyes in 
his direction. 

“ Surely this is not the first time you have 
heard that,” he continued, anxious that she 
should say something to him. “ Every one 
who hears you must think as I do.” 

“ Yes, I have heard it before,” and the 
slender fingers moved a tiny bit faster. 

“ You look incredulous.; you think I exag- 
gerate,” he suggested. 


VENI! VIDI! ? 


49 


“ Perhaps not ; I have never heard an angel 
sing,” she answered with perfect gravity. 

“ Then listen to your own voice some day,” 
and he leaned forward to look into her face, 
wondering at her quiet unconsciousness. She 
looked up at him then and smiled, and he was 
able to see that the smile meant amusement 
rather than pleasure, as she listened to his 
praise. 

“ I shall feel afraid to sing again foi any one 
who has an acquaintance with the heavenly 
choirs,” she said. “ Do you ever really see 
them as well as hear them. Was it an angel 
announcing its presence by pounding in the 
hall all day.” 

“Not unless you call Mary Ann and me 
angels,” he answered laughing, “and there 
might be a diversity of opinion on that point.” 

“I am certain Mary Ann is,” and she 
laughed with him. “ She has such a happy 
faculty of turning up in unexpected places.” 

“ Not a day over twenty,” Philip assured 
himself, as he responded : “ It must be an 

ungenerous spirit which bids you draw the 
line at Mary Ann. Was it accident or design ?” 

“ One has to draw it somewhere, and Mary 
Ann is an excellent stopping point. I am re- 


50 


PEN// VI D I ! ? 


minded though it must have been something 
more than human that manufactured those 
wonderful curtains you have hung in the 
hall. I quite envy you.” 

“ Do you like it ?” he inquired. “ You must 
come up and see my rugs and cushions, if that 
sort of thing pleases you. I have what Mrs. 
Bernard calls my ‘study-o’ there. I am anxious 
to get to work.” 

“ What an anomaly !” she exclaimed “ An 
industrious artist ! Are you always so ener- 
getic ?” 

“ If it were bread and butter for six, or even 
one, I was working for, I dare say I would be 
as lazy as the worst of them. As it is, it helps 
to kill the enemy.” 

“ I see,” she said, slowly, “ it’s only to 
amuse /yourself.” 

“ No, not quite so bad as that, for I suppose 
I would paint if I were rich or poor. But if 
I were obliged to do it, I would, as a natural 
consequence, be obliged to find some other 
amusement. Do you see ?” Then, as she did 
not respond at once, he continued : “ When I 
hear you sing, it almost makes me think lightly 
of my art. I wish it were possible to paint 
such a voice.” 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


51 


“ Is it not enough to hear it?” 

“ Yes, if I could hear it always ; but I am 
limited to a very small taste only now and 
then.” 

“ That should satisfy you,” she said, gravely; 
a great many persons do not have that.” 

Philip looked at her with a little of the 
amazement he felt displaying itself in his blue 
eyes. Was it that she had so much conceit or 
so little? She made a very fair picture seated 
there, the light from the window back of them 
reflected into the pale face by the music on 
the rack before her. 

“ I believe I’ll try her on something else,” 
he thought, her indifference putting him on 
his mettle. Resting his elbow on the piano, 
he leaned forward, and began rather timidly : 
“ I should like to sketch you, Miss Dare, just 
as you are now, in this white frock, and seated 
at the piano.” 

“Would you?” she asked simply, meeting 
his eyes with a direct, steady gaze. “ I should 
like first to see how you paint. Suppose you 
do Mary Ann, and show me.” 

“ Ah, now you are laughing,” Philip said, 
with a slight heightening of color. “ Mary 
Ann would not do at all. I must have inspi- 


52 


VENI! V1DI ! ? 


ration from my model. I don’t paint mere 
portraits.” 

“ Then you should surely paint Mary Ann,” 
she said, with a gravity which almost caused 
him to believe she meant it, and, rising, 
gathered up her scattered music. 

“ Won’t you sing again?” he pleaded. “ I 
fear I have stopped you.” 

“Not now,” she answered graciously 
enough. “ Later, perhaps. Look,” pointing 
to the tall old clock in the corner, “ it’s half- 
past five, and here is the mail.” 

Philip -went to the door to meet the boy, 
and, returning, handed her two letters, won- 
dering if that everlasting Armstrong had 
written the one bearing the masculine chir- 
ography. She gave no indication, however, 
as to the writer, simply smiling as he gave 
them, and passed slowly upstairs with them 
in her hand, still unopened. 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


53 


CHAPTER IV. 

That evening, after everyone had said good 
night, Philip sat smoking at the window for 
a long time. They had gone for a walk after 
supper, Mrs. Dare, Rachel, Ellen and him- 
self, and as he sat here thinking it over, a 
sweet, pale face, with bright red lips, and 
dark gray eyes, kept floating up in the rings 
of smoke. 

“ I can’t quite make her out,” he mused. 
“ I don’t know whether its innocence or art. 
If it’s art, it is certainly the best I ever saw, 
and if it’s innocence, she doesn’t get it from 
the old lady. Whatever it is, it’s charming,” 
he added some minutes after, as he rose and 
knocked the ashes from his pipe. 

“ I think I should like a row myself in the 
morning,” he remarked half aloud, before he 
went to sleep. 

Philip felt a trifle foolish the next morn- 
ing, as he glanced at the door opposite his 
own, and wondered if Rachel were up. 

“Well, I declare, Mr. King, if you ain’t 
ahead this morning,” Mrs. Bernard said when 
she saw him. “ Miss Rachel she hain’t up 
yet. We’re just agoin’ to have breakfast, 


54 


VENJ ! VIDI ! ? 


Father an’ me an’ the men; will you set 
down an’ take a bite with us?” 

He courteously declined her invitation, 
laughing a little as he told her he was going 
out to look for an appetite, that he might dis- 
pose of a greater amount when the breakfast 
hour arrived, ending with a little hint at her 
excellent cooking which caused her face to 
fairly beam. 

“Just eat when you please,” she said, 
smoothing down the gingham apron, which 
almost covered her. “ Your breakfast is a 
waitin’ whenever you want it.” 

“ It’s some satisfaction to cook for Mr. 
King,” she said when she reached the dining 
room again. “ He knows how to appreciate 
things. You can al’ays tell what folks is 
made of by their actions.” 

Henry Bernard promptly assented, as he 
usually did to any and all assertions his wife 
made, but it was with a hearty good will he 
answered now, the interest the young man 
had displayed the other evening still fresh in 
his memory. 

Philip strolled out onto the lawn, slightly 
bored, and wondering if he had not rather 
overdone the thing. For an hour he walked 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


55 


up and down, feeling his good humor gradu- 
ally slipping away from him, as he struck at 
the tall grasses here and there, or the fluffy 
head of a dandelion gone to seed, with the 
switch he had broken from the willows on 
the edge of the river. 

Presently his waiting was rewarded. He 
saw a gleam of light blue descending the 
stairs with rather more rapidity than was 
Rachel’s custom to move. 

“At last!” he exclaimed, going to meet 
her. “ Why, it’s Ellen,” he added rather 
blankly to himself. Still, it was someone, 
and after one has roamed about aimlessly for 
an hour, with nothing particular to think 
of, one is glad of any human being for 
company. 

“ I have been waiting a perfect eternity for 
some one to take a row with me,” he said, 
after he had bidden her good morning. “ I 
was beginning to get very tired of my own 
company.” 

“ Miss Rachel said she wouldn’t go this 
morning, so she didn’t come down early,” 
Ellen answered, taking it for granted Rachel 
was the some one meant. 

“ Why didn’t you come, then ? ” he asked 


56 


VENJ ! VI D I ! ? 


gently. “ You know you promised to take 
me yesterday, and didn’t.” 

“ Indeed, I didn’t mean it,” she said earn- 
estly. 

“ No, I know you didn’t,” he declared, smil- 
ing at her serious face; “ but you must really 
treat me better. Come, now, and take a row 
with me,” he said, moved by a sudden impulse, 
noting the child’s delicious color. 

“ Oh, no, I can’t,” she answered. “ I must 
stem the berries for breakfast.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to go? — would you 
rather stem the berries?” he questioned softly. 

“ Yes, I would like it,” she hesitated. 

“ Then come ; you will spoil your fingers 
with the berries, and besides, it isn’t polite to 
let me go alone the first time. Won’t you 
come?” going up to her with a beseeching 
glance, before which her eyes were shyly 
downcast. 

“ If mother says I may,” she finally an- 
swered, and ran into the house for permission. 

“ Of course, child, run along,” he heard the 
mother assent, and he felt himself unable to 
account for the satisfaction it afforded him. 
He fancied that Miss Dare had intentionally 
avoided him both mornings, and, although he 


57 


VEN I ! VI D I ! ? 

could not help feeling a little sore, he admired 
the clever manner in which she had accom- 
plished her purpose. It was a gratification 
that the little one was willing to go. 

Ellen reappeared in a little while, hastily 
tying the strings of her broad hat. 

“ Mother says Mary Ann can stem the ber- 
ries,” she explained ; “ aren’t you glad?” 

“ Very glad,” he answered gravely ; “ I 
should have been disappointed if you could 
not have come.” 

“ Which way shall we go?” he asked, as he 
picked up the oars and pushed off. 

“ Oh, this way. The falls are down that 
way and we can’t row far.” 

“Are there falls? I must see them; but 
not this morning,” he added, reassuringly, as 
she looked startled. 

“ They’re only a mile down. We often walk 
there ; father won’t let us row down, although 
he says it isn’t very dangerous, except when 
the river’s high. Two men were drowned 
there last spring,” the latter sentence spoken 
in a subdued whisper. 

“ Bless me ! what an excellent place for a 
ghost !” exclaimed Philip, mischievously. 
“We must go down some dark night.” 

5 


58 


VENI ! VIDE! ? 


“ oil, no ! I don’t believe there is any ghost ; 
it’s so near St. Benedict, you know, people 
would have seen it.” 

“Is that St. Benedict?” he asked, nodding 
in the direction of the tall spire rising above 
the hills. 

“Yes, that’s where we go to church. Miss 
Rachel goes sometimes to sing, but she isn’t 
a Catholic.” 

“*Are you?” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” as if that were a very peculiar 
question indeed — every one ought to know 
that. “ Father is, too, and mother. She’s not 
French though, and wasn’t always a Catholic.” 

“Do you go down to church often?” he 
asked, finding she needed a question now and 
then. 

“ When Gaston’s home I do. How clear 
the water is this morning !” 

“Ah, ha! and who is Gaston? A sweet- 
heart?” he questioned, leaning forward to look 
in her blushing face. 

“It’s cousin Gaston,” she answered a little 
impatiently. “ He lives here, only he’s down 
at Martone’s now, because John broke his leg, 
and there wasn’t any one to help except Joe, 
and he’s only fourteen.” 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


59 


“ Ah, I see,” said Philip, unable to feel a 
great amount of interest in the domestic ar- 
rangements of the Martones. “Are those 
white flowers I see up there, rhododendrons, 
Ellen?” motioning in the direction of the 
cliff they were approaching. 

“ Oh, yes, and Miss Rachel and I wanted 
some yesterday so badly, but we couldn’t get 
up.” 

• “ I should think not, if that is the only ap- 
proach,” he said, looking at the steep side of 
the rock, which arose directly out of the 
water. 

“ There’s another way, around by the road, 
but that’s three miles.” 

“ I think I will get some of them,” he an- 
nounced, suddenly pulling with a strong 
stroke directly to the base of the cliff. “ Sit 
still until I come back.” 

Ellen looked frightened, but before she 
could think what to say to prevent him, he 
had thrown his coat in the bottom of the 
boat and was gone, drawing himself rapidly 
upward by means of overhanging rocks and 
branches. 

Ellen watched for a little while, then, as 
she saw him going on higher and higher, cov- 


60 


VEN1 ! VI D I ! ? 


ered her face with her hands, shivering, 
afraid to look, still feeling that she must 
know what had become of him. 

It seemed to her she had waited hours 
when she was startled by something gently 
touching her, and uncovering her face with 
an uncertain horror, saw a great bunch of 
rhododendrons lying at her feet. Glancing 
up quickly, there was Philip leaning over the 
edge of the cliff, laughing down at her, call- 
ing something she was unable to understand'. 

She saw then that the boat had drifted 
away from the cliff a little, and guessing that 
was what he had meant, pulled it back to 
where it had been before. 

Ah, now he was coming down again, and 
Ellen remembered that this was the most 
difficult part of the performance. She saw 
him start, swing himself lightly and rapidly 
from one point to the next, till suddenly he 
paused, reached for the stone he had appar- 
ently expected to find, then drew himself 
back and hesitated a moment. He glanced 
down the side of the cliff, and poor little 
Ellen saw that he was preparing for some 
unusual effort. Oh, what was it? and cover- 
ing her face once more, prayed silently. 


VENI! VID1 ! ? 


61 


A few moments after she felt the boat lurch 
suddenly, and heard him exclaim brightly : 

“Ah, Ellen, did I frighten you?” And as 
he leaned towards her and gently removed 
her hands : “ Why, poor child, how pale you 
are. I was a brute not to know it would 
frighten you.” 

With this, Ellen’s sense of relief was so 
great, the tears gathered in her eyes, and, to 
Philip’s dismay, sobbed aloud. Taking her 
hand, he tried to soothe her, calling himself 
all sorts of hard names for frightening her. 
To his intense relief her sobbing ceased 
in a short time, and seizing the oars he rowed 
swiftly towards the opposite bank. 

“ You havn’t even looked at the rhododen- 
drons,” he said, presently, as her agitation 
subsided. “ See what quantities there are. 
Don’t you care for them after all my trouble?” 

“ They are lovely,” she answered, taking 
some in her hand, “ but I was so frightened. 
I was afraid you would fall.” 

“ No, there was little danger. I know how 
to climb and swim. Had I slipped, the dis- 
tance was short, and I should have fallen 
near the boat. But of course you didn’t 
know that.” 


62 


VEJVI/ VJDI ! / 


“I am sorry I cried,” slie said, flushing 
hotly as he only laughed a little. 

Mrs. Dare and Rachel were at breakfast 
when he entered, having apparently been 
seated only a few minutes. 

“ Here they air, an’ ef they haint got some 
of that there laurel that grows over on the 
high cliff; however did you get it?” Mrs. 
Bernard exclaimed as Philip was distributing 
his flowers, and saying good morning. 

“ We climbed for it,” he laughed. “ Excel- 
lent exercise, wasn’t it, Ellen?” as she en- 
tered after him, evidently having disappeared 
to remove the traces of tears. 

“ Ellen said you were wishing for some, and 
I thought I should enjoy a climb on a morn- 
ing like this,” he continued in a low tone as 
he handed a bunch of the fairest to Rachel. 

She thanked him simply, but her smile was 
radiant, and Philip seated himself, wishing 
the cliff had been twice as high. 

“ I am prepared to do justice to the muffins, 
I assure you, Mrs. Bernard. This clear air 
makes one ravenous,” he announced as she 
passed him a plateful, hot and flaky. 

“ I see you also have caught the fever of 
early rising, Mr. King. Positively it’s quite 


VENHVID1! ? 63 

beyond my comprehension. I wouldn’t like 
to say at what unearthly hour Rachel was up 
this morning, for fear I wouldn’t be believed. 
I thought she was going rowing. I know I 
heard her moving around her room before the 
sun was up. Now weren’t you, Rachel?” 

“ The sun was quite up, mamma. I had 
letters to write,” the girl answered with the 
faintest show of impatience, and a still fainter 
show of color, as Philip looked directly at her. 

“ Now isn’t that ridiculous?” Mrs. Dare con- 
tinued. “ What on earth she has to do all 
day, I am certain I don’t know. It’s the 
greatest pleasure for me to have letters to 
write ; they help so to fill up the day. I write 
whole volumes to my friends while I am here. 
But then Rachel never does what other people 
do. I would sometimes say to her when she 
was little, ‘ Rachel, you are the strangest child 
I ever saw,’ and she would answer me, ‘ Well, 
mamma, God made me.’ ” 

The subject of this speech sat very quietly 
while it was in progress, and at its close said 
calmly : 

“ Mr. King will discover my mental defi- 
ciencies only to soon, mamma ; don’t you think 
we might be spared the trouble of telling 


64 


FEN// VI DI! ? 


him? In that case he will have the satisfac- 
tion of having made a discovery.” 

She had risen as she said this, and passing 
out of the dining-room, laid her hand caress- 
ingly on her mother’s shoulder. 


CHAPTER V. 

Philip was unaccustomed to being surprised 
by his own actions; still it was something 
very nearly like that emotion with which he 
regarded himself one afternoon almost two 
weeks after his arrival at the farm. He had 
glanced at the calendar a moment ago, and 
not until then had he realized how long he 
had been here. 

“ I didn’t think I could stand it this long; 
it must be that the air is particularly bracing,” 
he assured himself. “ It’s a blessing it is, for 
there’s plenty to keep me busy here a month 
or two longer. I’d send for Steve, but I’m 
afraid he’d make love to Ellen. Beauty un- 
adorned is his style. It wouldn’t be fair when 
they’ve been so good to me,” he added after a 
moment’s hesitation, and he shook his head 
decidedly against sending for Steve. 


VENI ! FID I! ? 


65 


A stronger bond of friendship existed be- 
tween Stephen Hendley and Philip King than 
was usual between second cousins. Philip 
was the older by a year or two, but both 
habitually forgot that fact, and Steve took the 
initiative in every affair of importance. Their 
calling was the same, and when in town they 
enjoyed Philip’s luxurious studio together, for 
Steve often declared “ Phil furnished the cap- 
ital and he supplied the experience of the 
firm.” 

“ No,” Philip said again, as he heard Ellen’s 
laugh from below, “I shall not send for 
Steve.” 

He had seen comparatively little of Miss 
Dare since he had been here. He could not 
determine whether it was indifference with 
which she regarded him or actual dislike. 
Her manner was always gentle, and even 
gracious, but the mortifying fact that her 
interest in him was small was perfectly ap- 
parent. 

Her voice was a source of great pleasure 
to him, and he had formed the habit of pre- 
senting himself at the parlor every afternoon 
at four, when she practiced. Sometimes they 
conversed at this hour, but oftener he was 


66 


l EN I! VI D I ! ? 


silent, and he listened to her singing without 
interruption. 

He seldom saw her at any other time. He 
had painted diligently, and had the satisfac- 
tion to know he had never in his life done 
better work. While he worked she was read- 
ing or sewing with her mother, and frequently 
Ellen, on the porch or out under the trees. 
They made a pretty picture there, and he often 
smiled as he caught the sound of their voices, 
or heard a burst of laughter, so merry he could 
not refrain from laughing with them. 

Ellen had grown talkative these days, and 
Rachel sometimes marveled at her bright chat- 
ter about the convent, the nuns, the girls, and, 
most of all, Father Dutton, and what he said 
and did. 

Occasionally they were unusually gay, and 
Philip could not resist the impulse to join 
them. But this was not frequent, for he was 
able to see that his presence was a restraint. 
Mrs. Dare seemed always glad to have him 
with them, and monopolized the conversation, 
which was not exactly what he had come for. 
He had grown to feel quite an affection for 
this bright little lady, for, with all her garrul- 
ity, she was extremely kind, and he was grate- 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


67 


ful for it. Still, it would have been a satisfac- 
tion if she would not always do the talking 
when her daughter was present. 

This very afternoon he had gone down to 
them, as they worked, and found Mrs. Dare 
had gone to her room. He had not realized 
what an aid she had been to the general com- 
fort of the party, for, now that she was gone, 
no one seemed to have anything to say. It 
was decidedly annoying to produce always 
such a state of affairs, especially when one was 
not accustomed to it, and after a few vain at- 
tempts to restore the former good cheer, he 
left, decidedly cross with them and himself. 

Things would not go right after that ; colors 
would not mix as it was their bounden duty 
to mix, and somehow every line seemed out 
of drawing. 

“Pshaw 7 !” he exclaimed savagely, an hour 
or so after, “ I’m not in the humor to work to- 
day !” and he dashed down the brush and 
pushed the easel into the furthest corner. 

“ Four o’clock,” he said, looking at his 
watch ; “ time I stopped anyhow.” 

Immediately after he heard a door close 
down the hall, and a soft rustle as Rachel 
passed down stairs. 


68 


VENI! V1DJ! 


“ You are as punctual as I am,” she said as 
lie entered. “ Is four o’clock the end of your 
working day?” 

“ My working day is ended when I am 
tired,” he answered smiling; “but it did not 
end soon enough to-day, for I spoiled my best 
sketch by keeping at it when I didn’t feel 
like it. You must be very good to me this 
afternoon, for, in consequence of my disap- 
pointment, I am cross.” 

“ And you expect me to coax you back to 
good humor?” she asked. “You set me a 
thankless task.” 

“ Not so thankless as you suppose,” he re- 
turned. “ Think of the subsequent remorse 
I shall feel to know I have thoroughly lost my 
temper.” 

“You have already lost it, according to your 
own confession, and I don’t feel called on to 
interfere. Besides,” turning the music before 
her, “ I doubt my ability to do as you ask.” 

She had not intended that ; it slipped out 
before she could prevent it, for she knew his 
answer now would necessarily be a compli- 
ment. Still he did not answer as she had 
expected. 

He came a step nearer, and scanned her 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


69 


face earnestly for a moment before replying. 

“ I would be a brute if you couldn’t.” He 
then said gently : 

“ You are skillful.” She smiled after an in- 
stant, during which she turned and regarded 
him seriously; “your pause was very ef- 
fective.” 

“ You never give me credit for being in 
earnest,” he said a little impatiently. 

“You are mistaken,” she returned gravely. 
“ I think you frequently believe yourself to 
be in earnest.” 

“ I should have been better pleased had you 
let it stand as it was. It is not a pleasant 
idea that you think I only believe myself in 
earnest.” 

“ Very well then, we shall let it stand as it 
was,” she answered quietly, beginning to play. 

She was thinking of a letter lying up stairs 
in her portfolio she had received in answer to 
one of her own. 

“You are right, my dear,” it read. “ I do 
know Philip King, although I have not seen 
him for four years. I met him the first winter 
I was out, and almost lost my heart to him. 
He was as handsome as a picture then, and 
perfectly fascinating, but his conceit was some- 


70 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


thing terrible. He fancied every girl in love 
with him ; but of course you have already dis- 
covered that pleasant little trait, for it predom- 
inates. I would consider myself doing less than 
my duty if I did not tell you something I know 
about him. I have it from excellent authority 
that a fisherman’s daughter in Nantucket 
drowned herself on his account. They tell 
me he was guilty of no actual crime in the 
affair; that he simply trifled with her affec- 
tions. 

“ I was able to match the silks without the 
least trouble ; will send them to-day. With a 
great deal of love for aunt Kate, I remain your 
affectionate cousin. 

“ Katherine Brount. 

“P. S. — There was some doubt expressed 
as to whether it was Philip King or his cousin, 
but I have excellent reasons to believe it was 
the former. K. B.” 

Katherine had been married two years, and 
was devoted to her husband ; but the fact that 
she had once given her heart, unasked and 
without return, still rankled in her bosom. 

Her account of Philip had impressed Rachel 
unpleasantly. It did not accord with the 
opinion she had already formed, and she was 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


71 


sorry Katherine had told her. “ Although it 
was some satisfaction,” she told herself, “ to 
let him know there was one girl who had not 
fallen a victim to his charms.” 

Philip did not speak again for a long time ; 
finally, when there was a pause in her sing- 
ing, he approached the piano, and said rather 
suddenly : 

“ Miss Dare, will you tell me why you are 
antagonistic to me?” . 

She looked at him coldly, without the faint- 
est shade of surprise. 

“You are mistaken,” she answered; “I 
rarely take the trouble to be antagonistic.” 

“ It would make me very happy if I am 
mistaken. I fancied you had some objection 
to me, for you are so often silent when I enter 
your presence, and — ” 

He had said this quickly, eagerly, and hesi- 
tated, with a rising inflection in his voice, as 
if he were expecting an explanation, or at 
least an answer. 

“ It is difficult to remember always why one 
is silent,” she answered frigidly. “ I am un- 
able to account for my conduct ; my memory 
serves me poorly.” 


72 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


“ Now, I have offended you,” he said, really 
distressed. 

“ No, I am not offended,” she returned more 
agreeably, “ but I think it is a good time to 
stop, while both of us keep our tempers.” 

“ Not until you consent to bury the hatchet,” 
he said, leaning forward until his eyes were 
on a level with hers. “ You have never shaken 
hands with me yet,” and he extended his 
wistfully. 

“Have I not?” she asked, smiling back at 
him, and in the instant she hesitated, a cold, 
dripping figure, which had floated before her 
eyes whenever she was with him vanished, 
and she laid her slender hand silently in his. 

“ Now !” Philip exclaimed triumphantly, 
“ we are friends ; and,” as he kept her hand 
in his a second longer than necessary, “ you 
must do something to prove your friendship. 
You must come and see my studio.” 

“Yes,” she answers, smiling still, “I will 
come to-morrow, if you like.” 

“Will you really?” he eagerly asked. “I 
should like it better than anything.” 

He seemed very young to her this afternoon, 
quite boyish in fact, and something about him 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


73 


reminded her of Dick ; “ although he must be 
much older than Dick,” she told herself. 

“ Now, if you will only sing for me I can 
ask no other earthly happiness,” he con- 
tinued, settling himself comfortably in the 
huge wooden rocking-chair. 

“You are easily satisfied,” she returns, with 
a little laugh, then sings as he asks until the 
clock strikes five, and the boy enters with the 
mail. 

“ Don’t go,” he entreats, as she gathers her 
music together. 

“ But mamma must have her mail,” she 
answers hesitating. 

“ You won’t come back if you take it. Let 
me give it to her,” reaching for it as she stands 
in the doorway. 

“ He looks too confident,” she reflects, then 
aloud, “ No, I think I had better take them 
myself, Mr. King, thanks,” and she sweeps 
past, leaving him looking after her rather 
blankly. 


6 


74 


VENI ! VJDI ! ? 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Mrs. Dare, I have persuaded your daughter 
to come and visit me this morning. Will you 
come if she has not changed her mind?” 
Philip asked across the table the next morn- 
ing, thinking how pretty those simple bands 
of white hair made the old lady look. 

“ I’d love to come ; I delight in a studio, 
and have been actually dying for you to ask 
us,” she answered promptly. 

“ Lay the blame on Miss Dare,” he replied 
gayly. “ I have asked her a dozen times, and 
have met — well, not quite with a blank refusal, 
but almost. I should have asked you before, 
but that was a discouragement you see, and it 
made me timid.” 

“ Ah, that’s so like Rachel ; one can never 
tell just what she intends to do. Sometimes 
she quite dotes on art. I assure you she really 
is very fond of art, but she does seem to have 
a prejudice against a studio. There was Mr. 
Clarke last winter who asked us over and over 
again to come, and do you think she would 
go ? No indeed, and she positively gave the 
poor man no excuse, leaving me to invent one 
the best I could.” 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


75 


“ It was quite unnecessary, I assure you, 
mamma, I didn’t want to give him an excuse,” 
Rachel mildly suggested. 

“ No, I know you didn’t, and that made it 
all the worse, for he really was a charming 
young man. His manner was the loveliest 
thing I ever saw. But Rachel said she would 
have liked him better if he had had no manner. 
And his pictures were excellent ; every one 
praised his pictures, and that ‘ Passing 
Thought’ was really fine. You know him, 
don’t you, Robert Clarke? Ah, yes, I sup- 
posed you did. And don’t you know it was 
the most peculiar thing, so many thought that 
‘ Passing Thought ’ looked like Rachel. But 
of course it didn’t. Some people are so 
queer about seeing resemblances.” 

“ I fear you will be disappointed if it is my 
work you want to see,” Philip said in the first 
pause. “ I have some Persian and East Indian 
stuff to show you, and two or three bits of 
colonial bric-a-brac that may possibly interest 
you, but a very few sketches, and those have 
been made since I have been here. I have 
been working already this morning, endeav- 
oring to repair the damage done by my im- 
patience yesterday,” smiling across at Rachel. 


76 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


“ Will eleven suit you ?” Rachel asked after 
a while. “ I have letters to write this morn- 
ing and can’t come before.” 

“ Perfectly,” he answered, and wondered as 
he left if it were to the man who had written her 
the first day, she intended to write. He had 
noticed several letters in the same hand since 
then, and she always hurried up stairs a little 
faster when they came. The boy came with 
the mail while she was singing, and Philip 
had sometimes an opportunity to observe the 
character of the writing. 

“ Nonsense ! what a fool I am ! as if it made 
any difference to me to whom she writes!” he 
exclaimed angrily as eleven struck, and he 
found himself wondering at their non-ap- 
pearance. 

Hearing a step in the hall, he drew aside 
the hanging, expecting to see his delinquent 
guests. It was Ellen, and as he was about to 
turn back a little impatiently, he noticed how 
pretty the child was looking in an immense 
white apron and a quaint little cap, which 
protected her curly, golden hair from dust. 

His sudden appearance startled her, for he 
had drawn the curtain noiselessly, and not 
until he spoke was she aware of his presence. 


VENI! VID1! ? 


77 


“Oh, Mr. King! I didn’t see you, and she 
stooped to pick up the huge feather duster 
she had dropped in her confusion. 

“ Let me pick it up,” Philip said. “ There ! 
No, I don’t think I will give it to you,” taking 
her hand as she reached for it, “ until you tell 
me where you have been all these days. Why, 
I have scarcely seen you since the morning 
we went rowing. You have quite deserted 
me ; what does it mean ?” coming a step nearer 
to admire the pretty, downcast face. 

“ I’ve been so busy,” she faltered. “ I was 
over to see Father Dutton twice, and — and 
mother needed me,” gaining a little courage 
as she went on. 

“ Happy Father Dutton !” and he smiled 
down on the brown eyes that were for a mo- 
ment upturned to his. “ And didn’t you think 
I needed you?” with a voice which expressed 
more tenderness than he would have believed, 
she was such a pretty child. 

“ Oh, no, sir ! Mary Ann dusts your room ; 
doesn’t she do it right?” looking up anxiously. 

“ Beautifully, but not half as well as you 
would, I am sure,” he answered, still smiling 
gently ; “ and besides, I want to make a sketch 
of you. You look like a Breton peasant girl 


78 


VEJVI/ VIDI ! / 


in this gown and cap, only prettier. No, leave 
it on, you don’t know how pretty it is,” as she 
put her hand to her head to snatch off the cap. 

“Iam afraid you are laughing at me,” she 
said shyly. 

“ No, indeed ; and here comes your mother; 
I shall ask if I may,” as that worthy lady came 
panting up the stairs, a quantity of snowy 
towels over each arm. 

“ I want you to let me make a sketch of 
Ellen, Mrs. Bernard,” he said as she came to 
where they were standing. “ I know you 
would like one of her, though I won’t promise 
you it will be as pretty as the original,” smil- 
ing with the boyish expression customary 
with him when particularly anxious for any- 
thing. 

“ Why, law, Mr. King! of course you may,” 
the mother answered, smiling back, having 
long ago fallen a victim to Philip’s ready 
smile. “ I’m sure we’d only be too proud, an’ 
father’d like it better ’an anything. Why 
don’t you speak up, Ellen, and say you’d like 
it? An’ take off that cap, child, it disfigures 
you.” 

“ Oh, no, it doesn’t,” Philip said quickly. 
“ Can’t you see what a pretty frame the lace 


VENI ! VID1 ! — - ? 


79 


edge makes for her face ? It’s just the thing 
that suits her; do let her keep it on.” 

“ Well, I don’t know but it does look well 
on her,” Mrs. Bernard answered, rather re- 
luctantly, “ but then she only puts it on to 
dust in.” 

“ I went all the way to France to sketch 
girls in just such caps,” said Philip earnestly, 
“ and I didn’t find one as pretty as Ellen in 
the cap you scorn.” 

“Why, is that so?” she asked, viewing the 
cap with new respect. “ The Sisters made 
that for Ellen, and they’re most all French. 
It’ll please father, if you think she looks 
French.” 

The wearer of the article under discussion 
stood bashfully ' playing with the regained 
dust-brush, quite unable to restrain a little 
pleased smile at the complimentary turn of 
the conversation. 

“ Then I am to consider it settled,” said 
Philip, anxiously, as Mrs. Dare and Rachel 
came down the hall with the evident intention 
of fulfilling their engagement. 

“Oh, yes indeed, thank you! Ellen, why 
don’t you say thank you, child?” 

“ I am the one to say thank you,” he said, 


80 VENI! VI D I ! ? 

laughing, as Ellen murmured what she had 
been told to say. “ Consider that you are 
conferring a favor on me,” and he finished 
with a bow which, in Martha Bernard’s opin- 
ion, left absolutely nothing to be desired. 

“ At last!” he exclaimed, turning to the new 
comers, noting at the same time the marked 
contrast they presented to the two he had been 
conversing with. Rachel’s tall figure, and 
sweet, dignified face was strangely different 
from Ellen’s diminutive beauty. The little 
one has character enough, notwithstanding,” 
Philip thought, and almost smiled as Mrs. 
Dare’s slender figure made Mrs. Bernard’s 
bulk appear twice as great. “ Strong face, 
though,” he thought, referring to Martha Ber- 
nard. 

“ I feared you had deserted me,” was all he 
said, as these ideas were chasing each other 
through his brain. 

“Ah, no; are we so late as that?” Rachel 
asked with gentle graciousness. Philip 
thought he could almost find it in his heart to 
adore her when she wore this air, so grave and 
sweet it was. 

“ By actual measurement, twenty minutes,” 
pulling out his watch ; “ but it seemed longer. 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


81 


Will you come now?” and lie led the way as 
he spoke. “ Mrs. Bernard, you and Ellen 
must come with us. We are only intending 
to inspect my modest studio.” 

“Certainly you must,” Mrs. Dare insisted. 
“ It will seem quite like a party, and I do love 
to do anything with a party. Ah !” as they 
stepped inside, Philip first to welcome them, 
“no wonder you were anxious we should 
come. You would be very selfish to have all 
this to yourself. Do you always take these 
things with you when you go any place ?” 
Her quick eye had moved rapidly around, and 
comprehended readily the number of articles 
which filled the room. 

“ Yes, if I intend remaining long. These 
traps don’t amount to much, and I seldom 
have anything broken. They are very little 
trouble, and I can not do good work in a bare 
room,” and he looked not illy pleased at their 
admiration. 

“ What cushions !” and Mrs. Dare sank onto 
a pile of bright-colored Indian pillows with a 
sigh of contentment. “ These things would 
make one lazy in a very short time,” she 
added, sniffing at their delicious perfume. 

“ And they incite me to industry,” Philip 


82 


l EN I ! VI DI! ? 


said, as he stopped for a moment the explana- 
tion of a curious jar Rachel had admired. 
“ Look at this bowl, Miss Dare,” he went on. 
“ I prize this one more than that, although its 
intrinsic value is considerably less. Wait 
until I take out this trash,” and he removed a 
bunch of laurel, glancing curiously at Rachel 
as he did so. 

u You see,” he said, “ there is a little of it 
almost fresh yet.” 

“ Yes,” she returned, “ I was sorry to notice 
this morning that its best days are pasj:.” 

“Have you some of it still?” he asked 
quickly. 

“ There was some in my room early this 
morning. I did not notice whether it had 
been removed later or not,” she answered care- 
lessly. “ What a delicate color it has,” as she 
stuck the sprig he handed her, from the bright- 
est of it, in her belt. 

“There is plenty more where this came 
from,” he said lightly ; “ the cliff is covered 
with it.” 

“ I know it,” she answered with a little 
laugh, “ but the cliff is a straight rock, fifty 
feet high.” 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


83 


“ Nevertheless, this came from there,” he 
persisted, as she bent to examine the bowl. 

“ There are few men who would dare climb 
such a height for so trifling a reward,” and 
she turned her beautiful eyes upon his face, 
with an expression he could not entirely inter- 
pret ; still he smiled quietly to himself as he 
prosed away about his hangings and his 
bric-a-brac, not displeased with what he had 
been able to read in those clear gray depths. 
A moment later an exclamation from Mrs. Dare 
called their attention to the farthest corner. 

“ Just look, here we all are! Do you see, 
Mrs. Bernard ? There you are with your big 
darning basket ; and do you see Rachel read- 
ing, and Ellen’s blue dress, and Ponto, and 
there I am with the embroidery frame !” 

Philip made a little gesture of impatience, 
and crossed quickly over to them. 

“ I had hoped you would not see that,” he 
said, with a touch of annoyance. “ That is 
why I drew this bit of silk before it. Not that 
I care in the least for myself,” he hastened to 
explain, “ but I feared you would not like the 
idea of being sketched so unceremoniously.” 

“ You have paid us a very delicate compli- 
ment ; you have done it so beautifully, hasn’t 


84 


VENJ ! VI D I ! ? 


he, Rachel ?” as her daughter approached the 
easel. 

On the square piece of canvas before her 
was the view Philip had from this very win- 
dow. The river, the hills, the trees, the rocks, 
even the boat was there. Half way down the 
green slope, under the shadow of the great 
oak, where they usually sat in the mornings, 
she saw the group which had attracted her 
mother’s notice. There was Rachel herself, 
rather apart and somewhat more prominent 
than the others, seated on a huge rock reading. 
She remembered distinctly what she had read 
when she saw her position. On the rock be- 
side her lay a bunch of laurel Philip had 
brought her that morning. “ I wish he had 
left that out,” she thought, a little impatiently, 
then wondered why. A sudden admiration 
for the man’s ability arose, when she realized 
how clever were the other figures. “ What an 
eye for detail he has,” she thought, as she still 
looked in silence. 

“ Well, I’m sure nothing could be better,” 
Mrs. Bernard declared “Just look at that 
there river, and if here hain’t that very cheer 
Gaston made, an’ I told Ellen not to leave it 
out there, for it was a sight to be seen ; but, 


VENI ! VI D I ! -? 


85 


somehow, it looks pretty in the picture. An’ 
there’s the girls’ hats a-lyin’ on that old log 
where they al’ays lay ’em, and my blue ging- 
ham sun bonnet. Law ! I wish now I’d a-wore 
my white one.” 

Philip was intently watching Rachel’s face, 
a little afraid of what her opinion of his im- 
pertinence would be. 

After a long scrutiny, she turned, gave him 
a sharp little glance of inquiry, and said 
simply : 

“ Mamma is right; you have certainly com- 
plimented us. The group adds to the attrac- 
tion of the picture, but it would still be lovely 
without it.” 

“ I will paint it out, if you say,” he began 
reluctantly, picking up a brush as he read dis- 
approval in her face. “ I should have asked 
your permission, but in the meantime your 
positions would have changed, and you were 
so charming as you were ;” and with a little 
sigh of regret he moved toward the easel. 

“ Nonsense ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Dare, “ you 
shall not touch it. I am too proud of the fact 
that I have helped make a picture to be will- 
ing to be painted out of it. And, besides, I 
know Rachel doesn’t care. You don’t under- 


86 


VEN1! VI DI! ? 


stand her. Really, she is so peculiar,” and 
Rachel’s mother perched her head on one 
side, with an earnest look of protestation 
which reminded Philip more than ever of a 
canary bird. 

“ Shall I leave it as it is? ” he asked Rachel 
in a low tone, while the others were still talk- 
ing of the picture. 

“ I wonder that you ask, at this late hour,” 
she answered, a trifle stiffly. 

“ Nevertheless, I do ask,” he returned, “ and 
shall do exactly as you tell me.” 

“ Mamma says you must not spoil the pic- 
ture,” and Philip wondered if it were the re- 
flection from the curtain that lent the faint 
tinge of color to the delicate face. 

“ You said yourself it would be a picture 
without the figures, and you were right. I 
will do exactly as you desire,” he persisted, 
daubing the brush onto the pallet he held. 

“ Leave it as it is,” she said, and Philip 
knew it was not the curtains this time, as she 
moved quickly from him. He smiled, but did 
not thank her for the permission, as he re- 
joined the others at the easel. There was a 
look of puzzled inquiry in Ellen’s face, as his 


VENI ! VIDI! 


87 


? 

eyes met hers, which did not change for a mo- 
ment under the bright smile he gave her. 

“Will you be kind enough to accept this 
sketch when it is finished, Mrs. Dare?” Philip 
asked, with winning courtesy, when he found 
her admiration was genuine. 

“ Your pretty picture ? It would be a shame, 
much as I would like it. I fear you don’t ap- 
preciate its worth,” she said, with a youthful 
little blush. 

“ I fear you over-estimate its merits because 
you know the artist,” he said, laughing, “and 
then you know the place so well — that makes 
a difference. I hope you are not going to dis- 
appoint me by refusing it; I intended it for 
you,” telling his lie with good grace. 

“Anyone would like it,” she answered, 
“ and I will be very glad to accept it. But 
haven’t you spent a great deal of time on 
it?” 

“ Oh, no. Since you admire that, I am em- 
boldened to show you how much more I have 
done,” proceeding to uncover several sketches 
as he spoke. “ You see, I have not been idle 
since I have been here.” 

“Rachel, did you hear?” Mrs. Dare asked, 
for the girl had been looking out of the open 


88 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


window during this conversation ; “ Mr. King 
has given me his beautiful picture.” 

“Yes, I heard, mamma; he is extremely — ” 
and she hesitated a moment — “ he is quite 
skillful ; the picture is very fine,” she finally 
added. 

“ I knew you would think that ; you could 
not help it. And I don’t believe I have even 
thanked you yet, Mr. King.” 

“You have thanked me by accepting it. 
You don’t know what trouble artists have 
sometimes to give their pictures to anyone. 
Now come and look at the others. You see, 
you are spoiling me already; when you ad- 
mire one I expect you to admire all. These 
are extremely sketchy, and require a great 
deal of touching up.” 

“Oh, but they’re lovely!” Mrs. Dare ex- 
claims, “and I’m sure you’re quite too modest. 
Dear me, if I could do anything like that, I 
would think myself a Raphael, or Titiens, or 
Michael Angelo, or some old master. But 
why it isn’t quite as well to be an artist in the 
present day, I don’t know. I’ve seen ever so 
many pictures I liked better than those dark 
old things.” 

“If we could wait until a century or two 


VENI ! VI DI ! 


80 


p 

had passed over some of these, perhaps we 
could see people paying astonishing prices 
for them also. I think age makes some differ- 
ence,” Rachel says brightly. 

“ There’s encouragement there,” Philip an- 
swered her; then, noting Ellen’s silence, con- 
tinued : “ Mrs. Bernard says I may make a 

study of Ellen. I wish her hair would suggest 
Titien’s to you after it is painted, Mrs. Dare, 
as it does to me now in the natural state. It’s 
positively golden.” 

“ It will, I know, if that is what you mean 
it to do, you are so clever. I don’t believe you 
know how well you paint.” 

“ I shall soon, if I believe all these pretty 
compliments. I only want my picture to look 
like Ellen ; I will be satisfied if I succeed in 
that;” and while they were passing out Philip 
wondered again why the child looked at him 
with a puzzled expression. 

When Rachel went back to her room she 
took a letter from her portfolio and read it 
carefully twice ; then, lighting a candle, thrust 
the letter in the flame, and watched it burn 
until only the blackened bits remained, rust- 
ling gently on the hearth. 

“ She says there may possibly be a mistake,” 

7 


00 


VF.NI! VIDI! 


she told herself, “ and he shall have the benefit 
of the doubt and when Philip met her again 
he felt that a little barrier had been removed. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ I saw Gaston over to St. Benedict to-day, 
an’ he set he ’lowed to come ofer dees night, 
an’ stay teel Montay,” Henry Bernard an- 
nounced the next Saturday at supper. “ He 
says John’s lek is a-gettin’ stronger, an’ they 
don’t neet him much on Suntays now. I 
thought that would plees de leetle one,” he 
added, chuckling as Ellen’s color arose. 

The old man’s accent always caused Philip 
to smile, notwithstanding the respect he could 
not help feeling for him, he possessed a quaint, 
almost pathetic, dignity, which pleased and 
often touched the young man. Henry Ber- 
nard had formed a liking for Philip, and seized 
every opportunity to converse with him. His 
eye was ever open for choice bits of scenery, 
and would tramp any distance out of his road 
to show the young artist the way to some new 
spot. The faithful representation on canvas 
of his much-loved land pleased him, and he 


VEN I ! VI D I ! ? 


91 


reflected with simple pride that these were his 
fields, his hills, his river, which would delight 
the eyes of the city people by-and-by. The 
old man was not alone in his admiration for 
Philip ; every one on the farm had grown to 
wait for the bright smile or single word of 
greeting he had always ready. 

Their homage moved him but little ; indeed, 
he was so accustomed to it, only its lack would 
have made him aware how necessary it was for 
his happiness. 

Somehow Henry Bernard’s speech annoyed 
Philip a little this evening, and when Ellen 
blushed he found himself frowning at the 
ready color which usually pleased him. “ She 
blushes if you look at her,” he said to himself. 

Presently there was a step on the porch, and 
a moment later a tall young man entered. A 
broad-shouldered, well-proportioned fellow he 
was, with the same dignity of bearing his uncle 
wore, which the country-made garments were 
unable to disguise. He shook hands with 
them all, and was presented to Philip, who 
wondered silently “what in the devil they all 
meant by being ‘proper glad to see him.’ ” 

“ I heard Miss Dare was goin’ to sing to- 
morrow, an’ I tried to get up to hear her,” 


92 


VEN1 ! VIDI! ? 


Gaston was saying, after they had talked about 
the welfare of the family and the extent of 
the wheat crop on the Martone farm. He 
cast a shy little glance across at Rachel as he 
told his reason for coming. 

“ Not in the morning,” she answered pleas- 
antly. “ I told Father Dutton I would sing 
at Benediction. I went with Ellen to see him 
yesterday, and found him quite as charming 
as ever,” and as she rose Mrs. Dare and Philip 
followed, leaving the others with Gaston, who 
had only begun his supper. 

“ What charity you display singing for those 
poor people down there,” Philip said, nodding 
in the direction of St. Benedict. He had 
seated himself by her, while her mother had 
gone to her room for a moment. 

“Do you think it is charity?” she asked, 
smiling. “ I am sorry to be obliged to confess 
I don’t sing for them, but for Father Dutton.” 

“ The effect is the same — they listen to it,” 
he rejoined. “ I don’t suppose they hear good 
music from one year’s end to the next.” 

“ True, they listen to it, but they have really 
a good choir ; so it’s not such a treat as you 
suppose.” 


VENI! VID1 ! ? 


93 


“ It seems to be, as this stalwart youth has 
come so far to hear you,” he answered. 

“ I think Ellen might have a little credit 
for that,” she said, laughing. “ My singing 
is a secondary affair.” 

“Ellen’s sweetheart, is he? I believe I 
heard it before. It’s hard to fancy such a 
child with a lover,” he answered, thinking 
what a musical laugh her’s was. 

“ She is not such a child as she appears. I 
often forget myself that she is quite nineteen. 
The convent she went to accounts for her su- 
perior manners,” she answered, as if reassur- 
ing herself. 

“ Ah, yes. She’s a pretty child, and a little 
too good for the brawny farmer. Do you mind 
if I smoke, Miss Dare? Suppose we walk 
down to the river,” he suggested, after his 
cigarette was lighted. “ The moon will rise 
soon, and that bench is tempting there on the 
bank; or,” with sudden eargerness, “let us 
have a row. I have not yet had an oppor- 
tunity to display my ability in that line.” 

“ I would not for the world deprive you of 
an opportunity to distinguish yourself,” she 
answered, with a bright smile, “ especially as 
that is precisely what I was wishing for. I 


94 


VENI! VIDI ! / 


must tell mamma I am going ; she might think 
I was lost.” 

He heard her mother call to her not to be 
long gone, in a voice that had a little ring of 
displeasure, he fancied. When she returned 
she had thrown around her a white burnoose, 
with broad golden stripes, and Philip stood 
for a moment looking at her in surprise, for 
she was beautiful. The rich material in the 
wrap was peculiarly suited to her, and as she 
stood on the doorstep smiling, waiting for 
him to rise, he thought her the loveliest woman 
he had ever seen. 

“Are you not coming?” she questioned 
lightly, “ or did you change your mind while 
I was gone ?” 

“Indeed, I am coming; I was obliged to 
admire the effect for a moment,” with a little 
wave of the hand toward the gorgeous bur- 
noose. 

“ Yes, it is becoming,” she calmly answered, 
“ and the chilly evenings render it quite neces- 
sary.” 

If any more fitting opportunity for flirtation 
exists than a row on a quiet summer evening 
scientists have not yet discovered it. The 
sun had gone down behind the hills, and the 


VENI ! VI DJ ! ? 


95 


earth was submerged in the pale, soft after- 
glow, while away in the eastern horizon the 
yellow moon was peeping over the water. As 
he rowed along, almost silently, the minds of 
both these young people were filled with 
strange fancies. The silence, the dim light, 
the high bank beside them, reminded Philip 
of a cathedral he had known in the old world ; 
and the girl opposite seemed as a patron saint 
to his imaginative eyes, so still, so pale, so 
beautiful she sat, trailing her white fingers 
through the water, and it was a new reverence, 
a strange feeling that she was above and be- 
yond him with which he ever after regarded 
her. 

She was thinking how often Dick had been 
seated in the place Philip occupied. She tried 
to picture him there now, but it was only a 
very shadowy picture which came at her call ; 
the substance seemed far away. But the 
phantom was there, and somehow its appear- 
ance was boyish, and almost weak, in contrast 
with Philip’s actual presence ; still, it wore a 
fond, unselfish face, and she turned from this 
remembrance with regret, rather than impa- 
tience, uppermost. It was foolish for Dick to 
make love to her. 


9G 


VENI ! VI DI ! ? 


Surrounded, as she was, by a fashionable 
world, her heart was still a fair, unsoiled page. 
Her own finger had not so much as touched 
its margin. She knew she was beautiful ; .she 
knew how well she sang; but she did not over- 
estimate either gift. What she knew she 
knew clearly, justly ; and her mistakes were 
made before light came — never after. The 
process of reasoning was deliberate in this pure 
mind, but her conclusions were never wrong. 
Unspoiled by the praise which had been her 
portion all her young life, her affections were 
true and steadfast, and ever of slow growth. 

After awhile she spoke to Philip again, and 
the recollection of her long silence filled her 
words with gentle kindness, as she endeavored 
to atone for her lack of courtesy. How good 
he had been not to interrupt her, when he saw 
she did not feel like talking; and how quick 
he had been to see. Presently she sang when 
he asked her, and by the time they regained 
their starting point Philip had lost his heart to 
this beautiful songstress. The touch of her 
ungloved hand, as he helped her from the 
boat, sent a little quiver through his frame, 
and as he would have spoken madly, rashly, 
the sound of her quiet voice, asking him some 


VENI ! VIDI! 


97 


trivial question, interrupted him, and he an- 
swered calmly, not certain whether he had 
spoken or not. How little do we understand 
the influence our lightest words possess over 
another’s life. 

As they came up the path Mrs. Dare called 
to them in an impatient tone to hurry, that 
the dew was falling, and they walked quickly 
to the porch. He did not trust himself with 
them long; he was strangely excited, and 
wanted to be alone, that he might think it all 
out 

Before he went. to sleep his excitement was 
gone, and a strange, happy feeling remained. 
“ If she will not marry me, I’ll never marry 
any living woman,” he told himself, and, not- 
withstanding this astonishing statement, was 
soon sleeping the sleep of the just. 

The next afternoon Philip was seated at his 
window reading, for he could not find it in his 
heart to shock these simple-hearted country 
people by painting on the Sabbath day, as he 
possibly would have done any other place. 
By-and-by the sound of wheels aroused him, 
and, looking down, saw Gaston driving around 
to the front in the family carryall. A moment 
later Rachel and Ellen came out, and as he 


98 


l ENI ! V1DI ! * 


saw them about to step into the carriage Philip 
seized his hat and bounded down stairs after 
them. 

‘ ‘ May I not go with you ?” he asked. “ Do 
not doom me to my own heathenish reflections 
until you return.” He addressed them all, but 
looked at Rachel for a reply, a little startled 
himself by this new symptom which made him 
desire to go to church. 

“ Of course you may go ; may he not, Ellen?” 
and as her willing assent was given, he took 
the vacant seat next to Gaston. 

He felt an unusual exuberance of spirits 
during this drive along the bank of the river. 
He chatted and laughed, and made them all 
laugh with him. Even Gaston, who had 
looked on him with questioning eyes, dropped 
his vague suspicions, and enjoyed Philip’s 
fund of good cheer. The village was reached 
only too soon, and as they drove down the 
quiet street Philip remarked on its quaint, 
almost foreign, aspect. Rachel explained that 
it was populated almost entirely by French 
people, which also accounted for the only 
church being Roman Catholic. “ Father Dut- 
ton is also French,” she added as they alighted 
at the little stone church, which, like most of 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


99 


the houses, was covered with a profusion of 
American ivy. 

On entering the building Philip was sur- 
prised by the beauty of the place. Extremely 
simple, it was fashioned in the Gothic style, 
and its excellent proportions made it appear 
much larger than it really was. The altar, 
the railings, and all the wood-work were white, 
xelieved here and there by a delicate gold 
vine, which twisted and curved and lost itself 
occasionally, to renew its course farther on. 
Several really fine paintings hung on the 
walls, one a copy of the famous Immaculate 
Conception. On a side altar, surrounded as 
they entered by numerous devotees, stood a 
beautiful statue of the Mother of Ghrist. Vases 
of wild flowers were placed in every available 
spot, and the grace of their arrangement could 
only be attributed to an artistic hand. 

“ What does it mean ?” Philip whispered to 
Rachel as he stood with a slightly bewildered 
air; and then added, with a comprehensive 
wave of the hand, as he noted her questioning 
look, “ the beauty and everything.” 

“ I’ll tell you after awhile,” she answered 
gravely; “we must not talk now,” and she 
motioned for him to follow the others down 


100 


VEN1 ! VI D I ! ? 


the aisle, while she ascended the stairs 
to the organ loft. Faint rays of the dying 
sun came through the colored windows, leav- 
ing patches of blue and purple light where- 
ever they fell. Soon they were gone, and 
as the sweet twilight came candles were 
lighted, and Philip, with his quick, emo- 
tional nature, could understand why this 
evening service had power to charm a simple 
heart. 

Presently the priest entered, majestic in his 
rich robes, and, while the choir sang, Philip 
leaned forward to catch a better view of his 
face. Tall and straight, with short white hair, 
and twinkling eyes, the old man’s face was 
one of power, still gentle, and almost child- 
like in its simplicity. The young man drew a 
sigh of satisfaction as he noted the harmony 
between the minister and his surroundings. 
A thousand ideas came to Philip as the beau- 
tiful service proceeded, but each idea was 
stranded on the shore of one predominating 
idea. Soon, when the church was filled with 
the perfume of incense, and perfect silence 
abounded, softly, sweetly, a single voice arose, 
“ O Salutaris Hostia,” and Philip involuntar- 
ily fell on his knees, with a strange feeling of 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


101 


reverence that the voice was ascending to the 
throne of the Most High. 

“ I am not worthy of her,” he thought, as 
he covered his face with his hands in some- 
thing like prayer. 

Rachel was not entirely unmindful of him 
as she sang. A woman is seldom slow to 
learn a man’s admiration, and, however in- 
different she may feel toward him, finds it 
impossible to refrain from some endeavor to 
retain him. Neither was she quite indifferent, 
for no one could know Philip long and be 
able to resist wholly his peculiar charm of 
manner. She had readily guessed something 
of his esteem, but had not dreamed of the ex- 
tent of his regard. He interested her, and 
she could not fail to be grateful for his pres- 
ence, for she knew he added materially to 
their pleasure. She was glad she was singing 
well this evening, not that his word of praise 
would be pleasant to hear, but that he might 
be pleased with the music. 

Finally, the hymn was ended, and soon after 
Philip found they were all rising and passing 
out. He was dimly conscious that the white- 
haired priest had spoken a few words of in- 
struction, but he felt himself in a sort of dream . 


102 


VEN1 ! VIDI! ? 


When he left the church, where the clouds of 
incense were still rising to the arched roof, 
and stepped out into the fresh summer twi- 
light, it was with almost a feeling of pain that 
he had come back to the every-day world. 

The ride home was a quiet one. Ellen 
made a few faint efforts at conversation, but 
as no one seemed inclined to second them, she 
soon ceased, and the remainder of the way was 
passed almost in silence. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ May I stay with you?” Philip asked one 
hot afternoon in the following week. “You 
look so delightfully cool out here, I really 
could not withstand the temptation,” tossing 
down some cushions asrhe spoke. 

Rachel was slowly swinging in a hammock, 
reading now and then a page from Clerical 
Life, while Ellen was busied with some won- 
derful lace, which she fashioned with genuine 
French skill. Both wore simple white gowns, 
and, as Philip had said, looked delightfully 
cool. 


VENI ! VI D I ! — ? 


103 


“ What will you do for us if we say yes?” 
Rachel asked, smiling up at him. 

“ Offer you some of these first ; after that, 
whate’er ye fair damsels command,” he an- 
swered, with a low bow. 

“ We scorn your cushions,” she returned ; 
“ they are too hot, and our first command shall 
be that you read to us while we work,” and 
she handed him the volume, and produced a 
bit of embroidery as she spoke. 

“Ah, George Eliot? With all my heart. 
What shall it be?” he asked, after settling 
himself comfortably and opening the book she 
handed him. 

When Ellen shyly suggested Mr. Gilfil’s 
Love Story, saying she had not read it, Rachel 
assented, and he turned to the story men- 
tioned. 

He reads well. It seemed to Rachel the 
quaint, pathetic love tale gains a new charm 
as his strong voice goes on. Ellen sobs aloud 
as the story is finished, and there is a suspicion 
of moisture in Rachel’s orbs when he closes 
the book and silently awaits their comment. 

“ How could she, oh ! how could she have 
loved Anthony best,” Ellen asks earnestly, 
“when Maynard was so good?” 


104 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


“ It’s the way the world goes, little one,” a 
new voice answers, and looking up quickly 
they find Father Dutton quite near them, a 
sad expression on his peaceful face. 

“ Why, Father Dutton ! Where did you 
come from ?” they ask in surprise. 

“ From St. Benedict,” he replies, laughing. 

“ But when?” 

“ Some minutes ago. How can I tell ? I 
keep not time in my head,” with a slight ac- 
cent, and still enjoying his little surprise. He 
took Philip’s hand and held it for a moment 
when he was presented, saying : 

“I listened to you read; you give much 
pleasure. But why do you read so sad a story 
to these young things ? The sun is too bright 
to-day for sorrow.” 

u It is our fault,” Rachel said ; “ we chose 
the story.” 

“ Ah, why will the young people choose the 
sad things and the old ones the glad ones? 
When you have yourself cares, you will want 
another’s joys to read about, and will not want 
to weep at another body’s sorrows,” and he 
smiled at Ellen, who had already recovered 
her cheerfulness, and was smiling in return. 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


105 


“ But it is so beautiful,” she said, in exten- 
uation. 

“ Yes, beautiful to you, because this woman 
tells well her story. But can you guess it was 
beautiful to these in the story-book ? Do you 
think the poor child — what do you call her ? 
Caterina? or the good young man, saw that 
it was beauty ?” 

“ Perhaps there was some for him. Some 
natures are happiest when giving their best,” 
Philip said thoughtfully. 

“ That is true,” the priest answered quickly, 
giving him a searching glance. “There are 
many in this world happy in giving to those 
who no return can make. As you grow old 
you will find that those who do the most give 
have the less to show for their affection.” 

“ That, then, is unreasoning love which 
places itself upon an unworthy object,” Rachel 
said. 

“ Ah, child, reason and love fly not together. 
Where love is reason comes not often. How 
happy it would be if it were not so !” 

“ I don’t think Caterina should have mar- 
ried Maynard at last,” Ellen observed, still 
intent on the story. “ If she could not have 
8 


106 


VENJ ! VIDI ! ? 


given him her first affection, it was not fair to 
marry him.” 

“ No, no ! Would you have them always 
unhappy ? She found she loved best the good 
man ; she was right,” the old man answered 
warmly. 

“Yes, she loved him best; but / should not 
have married him,” Ellen repeated. 

“ You are too young to think of it,” Father 
Dutton said in an almost solemn tone. “ Let 
us pray that the good God in heaven will keep 
you all from such trials.” Then lightly, as if 
the subject were dismissed, he added : “ Why 
come you not for your sugar plums to-day? 
Must I tell Hortense you grow too big to care 
for her bon-bons ?” and he drew from his capa- 
cious pocket a dainty basket of sweetmeats. “ I 
will give them to-day to Miss Dare, because she 
was so good to sing for us Sunday. She must 
beg you for some, Miss Dare, for so it will 
punish her. My sister keeps the house for 
me now, and she likes to make these little 
things ; our mother, who is dead, taught her. 
Besides, she sends to you both her love, and was 
happy to hear you sing again. She says it 
was like an angel,” he added, as Rachel dis- 
tributed the bon-bons. 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


107 


“ I am glad she was pleased,” she answered 
simply. I will sing again at Benediction 
whenever you like.” 

“We would always like,” he returned, “we 
would keep you with us forever, and make 
you sing always, if we had our selfish 
way.” 

“ Oh, no ! you would soon grow tired of 
having a heretic constantly with you,” she 
said, laughing. 

“You would not be a heretic long,” and 
he laughed joyously with her; “your own 
music would convert you. Is not that true, 
Mr. King?” 

“ Miss Dare’s music could convert one to 
any doctrine she desired,” Philip replied, 
quietly enough, but with a glance at Rachel, 
which made Father Dutton smile silently and 
look keenly at her for an answering expres- 
sion. But she had turned toward the river, 
and if conscious of the scrutiny of the two 
men, she made no sign. 

“ She has already converted you,” the priest 
thought. “Ah, these young hearts ! Is it 
that he must suffer, or does she love him 
also ?” 

“ You are right to love music,” was what 


108 


FEN// VIDI! ? 


he said, giving no indication of his discovery. 
“ But I think a beast would love hers.” 

You would both spoil me,” Rachel said, 
playfully. “ How shall I punish you for such 
open flattery?” 

“ Would you make us untruthful by pun- 
ishing us for telling the truth?” Philip asked, 
gravely. 

She regarded him for a moment before an- 
swering : 

“ No, I would not punish you for truth,” 
was all she said, and turned her eyes again 
to the river. 

She was wonderfully pretty to-day. The 
hammock had slightly rumpled her brown 
hair, and two little bits of color were in the 
usually pale cheeks. She wore at her bosom 
a bunch of laurel Philip had brought her that 
morning ; and as he looked at her standing 
before him, so slim and straight, with the 
bright light shining in her gray eyes, he could 
scarcely resist the temptation to take her 
hand, to touch her gown, or in some manner 
assure himself she was real flesh and blood, 
and that some day she might, perhaps, 
be his. 

Ah, what a wealth of joy, or sorrow those 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


109 


two words may mean for us ! Most of us ex- 
pect happiness some day. 

Father Dutton turned from his contempla- 
tion of these two, to address a remark to Ellen, 
whose silence surprised him. But before he 
could speak the sight of her face froze the 
words on his lips. 

“ My God !” he thought, with almost a 
groan, “is this child also doomed to sorrow?” 

Her eyes were fixed on Philip, and in their 
depths the old man, who had known and 
loved her from infancy, read that she had left 
childhood behind her and taken up a woman’s 
cares. There was no mistaking the doubt 
with which she regarded the young man, 
whose face was turned toward Rachel. 

“ Mother of God,” the priest inwardly 
prayed, “ ask of thy Son that she be spared 
this sorrow !” 

“ Ellen !” he suddenly exclaimed, and even 
Philip observed the sharp ring of pain in his 
voice, “ you have not told to me how big the 
white doves grow. You must show them, that 
I can tell Hortense how they like the farm.” 

“ So I must,” she answered, rising with 
him, the childish expression returning, “ you 
can’t think how large they are. I have named 


110 


VENI! VI D I ! / 


the one with the black ring, Chief ; he struts 
so. Will you come with us ?” she asked the 
others. “ We are going to the barn to see the 
doves.” 

“ I think not, Rachel answered, “ it is time 
to waken mamma ; she has had a long sleep 
this afternoon.” 

“ Yes,” Father Dutton said, “ I would be 
glad to see the mother again.” 

Philip also murmured an excuse, and the 
two went off together, leaving him alone with 
Rachel. 

“ Don’t go now, please don’t,” he pleaded, 
as she began to collect her work, preparatory 
to entering the house. 

“Why?” she asked simply. 

“ Because I want you to talk to me awhile. 
You never say a word to me any more. Then 
if you wait the mail will be here presently.” 

“ What a fib !” she returned lightly, in an- 
swer to the first part of his argument. “I have 
said a hundred words to you this very after- 
noon.” 

“ Yes, but you said them to Ellen as well as 
to me, and I want them all to myself. You 
see I am selfish.” 

“ I see. You are right in one respect, at 


VENI ! VID1 ! ? 


Ill 


least. The mail will soon be here, and I be- 
lieve I shall wait,” and she seated herself as 
she spoke on the rock where Philip had 
sketched her. Marguerites were springing 
up here and there among the grass, and as 
she walked to her favorite seat a line occurred 
to Philip which pleased him : “ Her feet have 
touched the meadows and left the daisies 
rosy.” Several times it repeated itself, until 
he finally dismissed it with a “ Pshaw ! I’m 
getting foolish.” 

Rachel was the first to break the silence. 

“ There is the basket with Father Dutton’s 
sugar plums ; I had almost forgotten it. He 
never comes empty handed.” Then she added, 
with an almost childlike air, “ Don’t you think 
he is charming?” 

“Very,” he answered, smiling. “I don’t 
wonder his people are fond of him.” 

“ No one does, after they know him. Hasn’t 
he lovely manners? He is a dear old man,” 
she ended with more enthusiasm than he had 
ever seen her display. 

“Do you ever say that of a young man?” 
he questioned, going over to her. 

“ Seldom,” she answered, changing from 
the friendly manner she had worn to the cool, 


112 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


indifferent one that frequently irritated Philip ; 
“ one so rarely meets a charming young man.” 

“ Do you not ? I often do. The race is 
not so devoid of charm as you fancy,” he re- 
turned, a trifled nettled by her reply. 

“ I do not fancy; I have positively no im- 
agination ; I speak from conviction,” and she 
shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked 
down the road for the mail. u Ben is coming,” 
she announced. “ How many letters do you 
expect.” 

“None at all. It’s a bore to answer letters, 
so I left my address only with my solicitor; 
and, from the length of time your correspond- 
ence consumes, I find there was wisdom in 
my conduct.” 

“ It is a pleasure for me to write, and a 
much greater pleasure to receive letters. For 
instance, don’t you think these make me 
happy?” she asked, holding up half a dozen 
the boy handed her. “You are doomed to 
disappointment,” she went on, “ for one of 
these is for you.” 

In delivering it to him she dropped one 
from the number remaining, and when Philip 
picked it up he recognized the same writing 
he had noticed so often before. The sight of 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


113 


it served to irritate him unusually to-day, and 
he exclaimed impulsively as he gave it to her : 

“Your correspondent is very punctual; he 
never misses a day.” 

“ You are mistaken ; I had no letter from 
him yesterday,” she quietly rejoined. 

Then it was undoubtedly “ him.” He found 
he had possessed a faint hope to the contrary, 
notwithstanding the rfiasculine character of 
the address. 

“ You were doubtless very much worried,” 
he went on in a rather disagreeable tone, re- 
gardless alike of good manners and the little 
flash in the gray eyes. 

“ No, I was not very much worried, only a 
little anxious,” and she began to gather up 
her belongings. 

“ Do you treat all of your admirers with the 
same tender solicitude?” he continued reck- 
lessly, determined to discover something 
definite. 

“ None of them,” she answered coldly. 
“ My father alone receives what you please to 
term my tender solicitude,” and bowing cere- 
moniously she swept past him into the house. 

Philip felt a great weight had been lifted ; 
he wanted to shout he felt so happy to know 


114 


PEN 1 1 VI DI! ? 


it was only her father who had written her 
every day since her arrival. “ Why not now ?” 
he asked himself, but a new diffidence, which 
surprised him, overcame this desire, and bade 
him wait awhile, ere he risked his fate. By- 
and-by he reflected that she had evidently 
been annoyed by his persistent rudeness in 
trying to discover her correspondent. “ That 
won’t last long,” he consoled himself, as he 
went up stairs, and dressed for supper with 
unusual care. 

“ I saw Gaston at Mass on Sunday, Ellen,” 
Father Dutton began, as they walked to the 
barn together. “ Why didn’t he come to see 
me ?” 

“ I don’t know ; I guess he hadn’t time. He 
didn’t come till Saturday night. There’s one 
of the pretty white fellows now,” pointing to 
a dove circling over their heads. “ They will 
think I am coming to feed them.” 

“ Bless me, I suppose I shall be publishing 
your bans one of these days. Why, it seems 
I baptized you like only yesterday. What a 
little tiny thing you were then. All eyes and 
shiny hair. You have not now gotten very big. 
When I talk of a wedding for you, I feel I 
get old.” 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


115 


“ Don’t talk of it then, please,” she said, a 
flush coming into her ever-changing face, 
leaving it pale when it receded. “ I don’t 
want a wedding. I don’t want to marry any 
one.” 

“ Not want to marry Gaston ? Why what 
will he do for a wife ?” the old man asked, 
feeling little of his assumed lightness. 
“ Tut ! tut ! all the girls say that. I must tell 
Gaston not to wait after the fall.” 

“ Oh, no, Father Dutton, please don’t!” and 
she caught his hand imploringly. “ Indeed, 
indeed, I don!t want to marry any one.” 

“And what shall Gaston do?” he asked, 
still in the same tone, which gave little evi- 
dence of his heavy heart. 

“Oh, I don’t know; let him marry some 
one else,” she answered, with a little sob. 

“ Come child,” he said, gently, “ you know 
you would like it badly for Gaston to marry 
some other one. Now think it over, and tell 
me next week you will say yes to Gaston.” 

“ Oh, Father Dutton, I can’t,” she sobbed. 
“ I never can.” 

“ Well, well, we will look at the fowls, and 
let go that big tiresome Gaston. Wipe your 
eyes, and we won’t say any more now. See ! 


116 


VENI! VIDI ! / 


You are stingy ! They want a biscuit from 
your pocket,” he said, playfully, as the birds 
pecked at Ellen’s gown. 

“ I can say nothing to the mother,” he re- 
flected anxiously. “ She will think I am only 
in a jest, and if I am earnest, she will spoil it 
all. What shall I do ? May the Father guide 
me.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Not for several days did Philip think of the 
letter Rachel handed him that afternoon, and 
even then was reminded of it by accidentally 
searching in his coat pocket for a missing 
key. 

“ I’ll be shot if it isn’t from Steve,” he said, 
as he opened it. It ran simply : 

“Dear Old Fellow: 

“ Have gotten back from that infernal hole, 
and though Iv’e several good things to show 
for it, it’s not worth the pains. What are you 
doing in the country ? Shall I come up £here 
to see you, or will you run down to the city 
for a day or two. Am at the Brunswick, as 
usual, and will be here a couple of weeks. 

“ Let me know what you will do. Iv’e had 
a deuce of a time getting your address. 

“ Hastily. STEVE.” 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


117 


“ It’s like Steve, to hunt me up,” he thought, 
as he rammed the epistle back into his pocket. 
“ What in the devil does he think Iv’e got to 
do, to have time to run alb over the country 
to see him for a couple of days. I expect 
he did have a dull time of it up there, but 
it’s his own fault. I told him if he’d wait 
I’d go with him. He can just make the best 
of it at the Brunswick this hot weather,” and 
he painted away viciously, making the cliff 
on the canvas topple in a way nature never in- 
tended. 

Art was work, and not play for Steve Hend- 
ley, and although less industrious than Philip, 
he made a fair living thereby. The two were 
inseparable when in town, but that did not 
prevent either of them from forming a sudden 
resolution to take a long sketching tour alone. 
Frequently they would not hear from each 
other for a month or two, but in that case 
they were all the happier when they came 
together again. This time Philip had left 
while Stephen was gone, and the latter felt 
like a fish out of water when he returned to his 
familiar haunts and found his friend gone. 

After awhile Philip relented a little. 

“ I’d like to see the old chap, too,” he mused, 


118 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


“ but I wouldn’t care to have him up here. I 
believe I’ll run down to see him toward the 
end of the week. Terrible nuisance, though — 
a whole day’s ride.” 

He had seen little of Rachel since Father 
Dutton’s visit, and when he did see her she was 
neither distinctly friendly nor decidedly the 
opposite, still Philip endeavored to convince 
himself she did not regard him with indiffer- 
ence. Their hour at the piano had been in- 
terrupted ; she complained of a cold, and the 
clear voice did seem a trifle husky. She was 
in her room a great deal, but Philip discovered 
she had resumed her exercise in the early 
morning. He had not troubled her since he 
learned she preferred to go without him. 
Twice he brought her laurel since he found 
she was fond of it, but the second time she 
asked him not to go again. She gave no reason 
for her request, and he knew she thought he 
was in danger in climbing to the top of the 
cliff. Still he assented at once, and she simply 
thanked him. 

That evening she went with him again on 
the river, and, after a little silence, Philip 
boldly said : 

“Have you really a cold? or do you only 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


119 


say so because you don’t like to have me in- 
terrupt your music?” 

She looked at him in genuine surprise. “ Of 
course I have a cold,” she answered frankly ; 
4t you don’t interrupt me. Why should you 
think so?” 

“ Because I feared I had offended you the 
other day by my persistence in regard to your 
correspondent.” 

“ I had quite forgotten it,” she said with a 
pleasant little laugh ; “ why do you remind 
me of it?” 

“ That I might beg to be forgiven. I fancied 
you had been treating me coldly for a day or 
two, and that that was the cause,” and he 
dropped his oars and leaned eagerly forward. 
A bright wave of color swept into the girl’s 
face, but she still looked directly at him as 
she responded : 

“ That was not the cause. Pay no attention 
to my silly moods ; I assure you there is no 
accounting for them.” 

“Shall I not? May I believe you do not 
intend I should think you indifferent?” 

“ Why not?” and as she laughed again the 
color receded from her face, leaving her paler 
than before, he fancied. 


120 


VENI ! VI D I ! / 


“ Ah,” with a sigh of satisfaction, “ then I 
shall. It is too much bliss to be in heaven 
awhile to be willing to come back to earth 
again.” 

“ I have a higher idea of heaven,” she 
smiled; “for instance, look at those lilies 
down there. Oh, I must have some.” 

“You shall have them all,” he said, and 
directed the boat toward them. In a little 
while they had dozens of the pure white blos- 
soms lying at their feet. Rachel seemed singu- 
larly young and bright this evening. She 
twined the lilies lightly in her brown hair, 
and pinned them on her white gown. She 
even fastened one in the band of Philip’s hat, 
which he had removed in the warm evening 
air. 

“You look like a water sprite,” he said as 
she finished and turned to him with folded 
hands for approval. “ You should always wear 
these, they suit you,” he added, with grave 
approval, thinking as he spoke how like she 
was to the pale flower. “ Like that one,” he 
thought, looking at one whose fair, white petals 
were but partly spread, and the rich, golden 
heart lay hidden. “ It will open to-morrow 
when the sun is warm,” he reflected, pleased 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


121 


with his fancy, as he watched the pure face 
before him. A gentle, almost childlike, ex- 
pression was resting there now, as she spoke 
softly : 

“ They suit none of us. Which of us are 
good enough to wear these pure, white things ?” 
and she began slowly to remove them. 

“ No, let them stay ; they are beautiful so,” 
and he put out a detaining hand. 

“I shall leave this one bunch for my guardian 
angel, as Ellen would say,” and she removed 
all but two or three at her bosom. 

“ That is one of the pretty Catholic fancies,” 
he smiled. “ It must be a great source of dis- 
comfort some times, when one has done the 
wrong thing, to think there is a messenger 
always so near to tell the tale. An earthly 
angel would satisfy me.” 

“Now, you are laughing!” she exclaimed, 
“ and I do not like to have my theories ridi- 
culed.” 

“ Do you seriously believe you have a 
guardian angel?” he asked softly. 

“Yes; and no argument could shake my 
belief. It comes from intuition, not reason- 
ing. I believe that a spirit is sent from 
heaven, ever ready to guide, to guard, to pro- 
9 


122 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


tect me, and at this moment it is with me, and 
that one is always waiting at your side as well 
as mine to give you help when you need it.” 

She looked so earnestly at him, he involun- 
tarily turned his head to see the spirit of which 
she spoke with such conviction. 

“ Oh, you cannot see it,” she said, regaining 
her usual manner, “I fear I am talking non- 
sense.” 

“ No, you are not ; one cannot laugh at such 
a beautiful idea. Do you really believe,” he 
went on, unwilling to leave the subject, “ that 
in a serious undertaking, one which would 
affect your life’s happiness, this ever watchful 
spirit would direct your action ?” 

“ I do,” and her sweet solemnity made him 
ashamed of his slightly incredulous tone. “I 
believe if I should turn in any direction from 
the way to true happiness, it would be because 
I had disregarded the guide-posts erected for 
my safety ; and that sometimes my guardian 
angel would lead me back into the path I had 
left. Do not understand that I expect him to 
give me direct information, but that the inci- 
dents, trivial and unimportant as they appear, 
which daily occur in our lives, are only step- 
ping-stones to some end — that each has a 


VENI! VI DI! ? 123 

meaning and bearing, direct or indirect 
upon our future. Few of us understand or 
care to read their significance.” 

There was a pause after this long speech, 
and then Philip asked, “Are you supersti- 
tious?” 

“ I think not,” she returned, “ but I don’t 
wonder that you think that sounds like it. If 
I had more religion, I probably would have 
fewer fancies of this sort.” 

“ I cannot picture you following the set 
rules of any sect,” he said musingly, “ you 
seem too ready to think for yourself.” 

“ Can you not?” and she leaned quickly for- 
ward. “Ah, that is my trial ; the fact that I 
must think for myself. Responsibility in its 
very name possesses actual terror for me. I 
would be happy, I think, could I subjugate 
my mind to one superior, and do only what I 
am commanded, as nuns do, for instance.” 

“ You do not know what you are saying,” 
he said, with a gesture of vexation. “ This 
Catholic atmosphere is not good for you.” 

“ Yes, I love it. There is no danger that I 
shall ever be a nun ; the confinement, the dull 
routine would kill me. I did not mean I 
should care for a nun’s life, only for their free- 


124 


VENI/ VJDI! ? 


dom from responsibility. No, the poetry of 
the Catholic religion pleases me, as the ex- 
ternal beauty delights you. That is all,” and 
she began to pick up the lilies as they neared 
home. 

“ Yes, it pleases me,” he slowly answered, 
“ but — I think it more than pleases you.” 

“You are right; it interests me. Now let 
me apologize for having bored you. Is it a 
new grief or a species of consolation to know 
that I have never spoken in this way to any 
one. It honestly surprises me as much as it 
does you,” and she dropped the earnest tone 
she had employed, and took up a light con- 
versational air which rather iarred upon 
Philip. 

“You compliment me by speaking your 
mind,” he answered, “ and the fact that you 
speak it first to me is more than compliment. 
Why did you do it?” and he retains her hand 
a moment after assisting her from the boat. 

“Who can tell?” with a slight wave of the 
slender hand he had just released. You were 
so sympathetic, perhaps. Don’t you know,” 
and she assumed a light, almost jaunty air, 
“you must never ask a woman why. Ten to 
one she won’t have a reason, and if she has, 


VENI! VIDI! ? 


125 


twenty to one she will make you angry by 
telling it.” 

“ That is something she cannot do,” he re- 
joined, adopting the same spirit. “ It will 
take more than a woman’s reason to make 
me lose my temper.” 

“Ah, you boast; beware that you do not 
lose it for punishment,” and she shook a 
warning finger before him, thinking how 
handsome he looked, standing there in the 
moonlight, little damp rings of hair cluster- 
ing about his white forehead. She thought 
of his beauty exactly as she would have 
thought of a picture or statue, except she 
would have spoken her admiration had he 
been aught but flesh and blood. 

“There’s a mist around the moon,” she 
said, glancing up, as Philip stood silently 
staring at her, “ we shall have rain to-morrow. 
Come, or mamma will tell us the dew is fall- 
ing. I fear we are late this evening,” and as 
they hurried on she little guessed that for 
the second time her chance remark had pre- 
vented a declaration. 

“ Dear me, Rachel ! I thought some terrible 
thing had happened to you. Don’t you know 
it isn’t safe to be on the river so late ; all sorts 


126 


VENI! VIDI! / 


of vapors arise, and you will have some terri- 
ble fever yet,” Mrs. Dare exclaimed when 
they entered, and there was genuine annoy- 
ance in her tone. 

A little doubt crossed Philip’s mind that 
there was some reason for her objection other 
than she gave, for although the moon was 
rising, it was not yet late. 

“ There hain’t no ague on this river, is 
there, father?” said Martha Bernard. “ We’ve 
been a livin’ here ever since Mother Bernard 
died, and that was nineteen years ago this 
spring. We moved in sheep-shearin’ time, 
and there hain’t no one had the ague, as I 
know of yet.” 

“ No,” the old man answered, deliberately, 
“ der ’haint no akue, but dere’s oder tings to 
be caught on de river.” 

“Now, there, Rachel! didn’t I tell you! 
Mr. Bernard says there are dreadful things to 
be caught. Really, my dear, what would 
your father say to such imprudence?” 

“ Mr. Bernard didn’t say what the dreadful 
things were,” Philip said, noting the twinkle 
in the old man’s eye. 

“You’ll know if you get him; maybe it 
’ees fish,” and Henry Bernard chuckled im- 


VENI! VI DJ ! ? 


127 


moderately at his little joke, as his wife openly 
nudged him. 

“ Of course they will know,” Mrs. Dare 
went on, failing to see the point. 

“ You must blame me, Mrs. Dare, for keep- 
ing her so late ; I was lazy coming back, and 
did not row as fast as I might. We shall go 
before supper after this, and be safely housed 
before sunset,” Philip said at last, too much 
amused by the shower of remarks with which 
they were greeted, to think of making an ex- 
cuse before. 

Rachel laughed, “You would be depriving 
mamma of one of her chief joys if you did 
that, Mr. King. She is happiest when she 
is worrying about some one. Isn’t it so, 
mamma?” and stooping, she lightly touched 
her lips to her mother’s forehead. 

“ You know you are not strong,” her mother 
returned, smiling up at her, “and I am afraid 
you will be ill.” 

“ Not strong! Why mamma, I’m a perfect 
Hercules; I’m never ill, am I, Ellen?” as the 
child passed her on her way into the hall. If 
she heard the question, she made no response, 
but Philip fancied there was a faint sound as 
she went by him in the doorway. 


128 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


Rachel puzzled him, he confessed to him- 
self that night. He never knew which mood 
to expect. He would leave her, apparently 
the best of friends, and, returning, would find 
her distinctly indifferent or perfectly silent. 
The silent mood was hardest to interpret, 
for her face was positively unreadable at 
such times. Occasionally he fancied she wore 
a sad expression, when she would surprise 
him by becoming suddenly gay, as if she 
understood his desire to read her. When the 
others were engaged in conversation, she was 
frequently abstracted, but singularly earnest 
and attentive when they spoke directly to her. 

He felt a decided elation when he reflected 
on her confidential manner in the boat. “Or 
no,” he corrected himself, “it was not confi- 
dential, only earnest. Whatever it was, I love 
her,” he thought, “ and that innocent face can- 
not belong to a coquette,” as he sometimes in 
his uncertain moods considered her. 

“ I think I’ll run down to-morrow and see 
Steve,” was his last resolution before going to 
sleep. “His judgment is usually good, and 
I’ll put the whole case before him.” 

The next morning it was raining, as Rachel 
had predicted, one of those steady down-pours 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


129 


that come to stay, so it was out of the question 
to go to the city to-day. Philip was conscious 
of a slight sensation of relief as he looked out 
on the gloomy landscape, and reflected that 
he would have another day for new develop- 
ments before making his statement to Steve. 
If the truth be told, he was a little afraid of 
his cousin’s keen eyes, much as he desired his 
opinion. 

“ There is no sense in a man being in love,” 
Steve often said, “ when there are so many 
girls to take the trouble off of you.” 

To do Philip justice, he had really never 
been so deeply in love before. He recognized 
the difference between this and a dozen little 
affairs which he had poured before into Steve’s 
avowed unsympathetic ear, but feared he could 
not make him understand the distinction. “ I 
believe, after all, I’ll bring him back with 
me,” he mused, “ and let him judge for him- 
self.” 


130 


VENI ! VI DI! ? 


CHAPTER X. 

St. Benedict was a village dear to Father 
Dutton’s kindly heart. He was a very young 
man when he came here first, and the place 
seemed to his homesick eyes like a glimpse of 
France in the heart of America. With these 
simple French people he could forget that he 
was in a strange land, and he soon grew at- 
tached to them, and stayed with them for their 
own sakes, little troubled by worldly ambition. 
Years had passed since his coming, some pass- 
ing smoothly, some with a crash and clatter, 
and all swiftly; and in that time many ad- 
vancements had been proffered him. But he 
refused them all with simple dignity, content 
to save these souls he had learned to love, and 
who had grown from childhood to manhood, 
from manhood to old age, under his tender 
care. His own private fortune had built and 
furnished his church, and his prosperous peo- 
ple knew how far, besides, it had gone toward 
aiding them in their earthly trials. 

The affection with which his people re- 
garded him was only a degree removed from 
adoration. The thought of his grief often re- 
strained them from wrong, when no higher 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


131 


motive troubled their artless brains. They 
seldom attempted deception, for his perception 
was keen and his judgment quick to see 
through the frail webs their unskilled tongues 
sometimes wove. Some there were among 
them who believed he had a special gift 
straight from heaven to read their innermost 
thoughts, and the old crones mumbled long 
tales of miracles performed, while these men 
and women were still in the cradle. He 
frowned severely on these, when, perchance, 
a word or two would reach his ear, but his 
modesty only served to assure them of his 
saintliness. 

The old man lived simply as the men and 
women about him. His only amusement he 
found in his library, filled with rare and valu- 
able volumes, and his garden, which old Bap- 
tiste loved as the apple of his eye, and watched 
and tended as Father Dutton did his flock. 

Sometimes Baptiste and Mathilda whispered 
together in their native tongue of a grave in 
sunny France, where “the Father’s” last 
good-byes had been told. Ah, well, that was 
before he had been a priest, and if he had 
known a grief no one but these two was ever 
the wiser, for they kept their counsel. His 


132 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


kindly cheer was far removed from a thought 
of sadness, save when he grieved in his peo- 
ple’s sorrows, and his laugh was ever ready in 
their joys. 

Mademoiselle Hortense was disturbed the 
morning following Father Dutton’s visit at 
the farm. He was evidently troubled. His 
usual fund of bright gossip was missing ; and 
to her secret sorrow the newly-laid egg, always 
consumed with enjoyment, remained un- 
touched. Therefore, she was not unprepared 
for a very unusual circumstance — the calling 
of Baptiste and the ordering of what he pleased 
to term his carriage. To a few untutored 
minds this might appear a very simple inci- 
dent, and only the initiated understood all it 
involved. 

Baptiste was a very formidable personage. 
He had played with Father Dutton when 
they were children in their native land ; as 
young men they had crossed the ocean to- 
gether, and old age had finally scattered its 
ashes over the heads of priest and servant 
alike. Baptiste’s veneration for his master 
did not prevent him from holding a rod of iron 
over his head where household details were 
concerned ; and only on rare occasions did the 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


133 


master rebel and exert his authority. Baptiste 
trembled when these times came, for he knew 
they meant exact obedience. Only Mathilda, 
who had also grown gray in the good man’s 
service, knew the actual fear Baptiste felt on 
such occasions. 

This morning he shuffled hastily in answer 
to the bell, prepared for the argument he felt 
was only his just due when an order was 
given. 

‘‘Bring me the carriage, Baptiste, and be 
ready in half of an hour — quick !” Father Dut- 
ton said peremptorily, after returning the good 
morning offered. ' 

“ You cannot haf de carritch dees day, de 
horse has on one leg no shoe,” the old man 
returned, surprised by the tone of the com- 
mand, still unwilling to be deprived of an 
accustomed pleasure. 

“ You will bring the carriage in half of an 
hour,” the priest repeated, apparently in no 
mood to gratify his servant’s love of contro- 
versy. 

“ But de band is off what you call him ? the 
tire is off de wheel, and de weets must come out 
of de garten dees morning. You gafe me yes- 
terday dat word.” Father Dutton’s very figure 


134 


VENJ! VIDI! ? 


should have been warning enough, so deter- 
mined he stood, but it was not. 

“ You may take the horse and the carriage 
to the blacksmith’s, but you must be ready in 
half of an hour,” he said for the third time, 
knowing Baptiste’s irremediable damages 
were soon repaired. “ I shall not be home to 
dinner,” he added in French to Mademoiselle, 
and, turning, walked out of the room, leaving 
the servant standing in open-mouthed aston- 
ishment. 

“ You must do as Father Dutton tells you, 
and not argue,” Mademoiselle said sternly in 
French, and the old man walked off, rubbing 
his head in perplexity. 

Father Dutton made it a principle to speak 
English in his household, that they might 
perfect themselves in that language. Only to 
his sister, who disliked what she called “ de 
cold hard English,” did he speak in his 
mother tongue. But twice this morning had 
he forgotten and addressed her in the lan- 
guage she detested. “ It must be something 
very unusual, indeed,” she said, as she busied 
herself with her tedious foreign darning. 

Within the allotted time Baptiste was wait- 
ing, and Father Dutton took the reins, while 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


135 


his servant murmured something about “ De 
blacksmeet ; he was queek, dees day,” and 
inwardly congratulated himself that he had 
not been asked to accompany him in his ride. 

“ I haf not seen de Father look so seence 
John ran away,” he confided to Mathilda. 
“ He looks like he was in a big puzzle. What 
could happen ?” 

“ It is not goot to think of de Father’s 
ways,” that worthy answered severely, as she 
spread sand on the white floor. “ He knows de 
best — better dan your stupid head. Now go 
away ; how can I clean my floor, when de 
men stand in de road?” 

“ He deed not tell where he would go,” 
Baptiste grumbled to himself, as he limped 
off to escape the shower of sand which fell at 
his feet and threatened to occupy all spare 
space in his low shoes. 

Father Dutton laughed a little to himself 
as he jogged along the dusty road, leaving 
Baptiste standing with eyes and mouth both 
wide open. 

“ It is well to give him a fright sometimes,” 
he thought. “ I will get him some tulips at 
the farm for his garden, and that will please 
him again.” 


136 


VENI! VI D I ! / 


In a little while the old servant had faded 
from his memory, and in his place stood Ellen, 
wearing on her face the look she had worn 
yesterday, when her eyes rested on the young 
artist. 

“ Maybe I am wrong, and foolish to think 
so,” he ruminated as he gently touched the 
old roan with the whip, which touch made 
not the slightest difference in the animal’s 
gait. “ But it will be for me a satisfaction, 
and the child is old enough now to be mar- 
ried. Dear me ! how old I get ! I fear I 
soon will have no more usefulness,” and pull- 
ing out his beads, he occupied himself as the 
fat old horse trotted slowly along in the hot 
sun. On either side of the way clumps of 
elderberry bushes and wild roses were bloom- 
ing in profusion, and here and there he came 
to a wayside spring, where the thrifty farmers 
had placed rude wooden troughs for the benefit 
of the thirsty traveler and his beast. Occa- 
sionally he would stop and speak to some one 
working in the fields near, but he met few 
persons on the road. 

At last he drew up before a farm-house 
with the air of one who had ended his 
journey. 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


137 


“ It makes me glad to know John will soon 
be well,” he was saying half an hour after he 
had entered the house, during which time he 
had heard with ready sympathy all the house- 
hold news.. “ He will be glad to work again; 
is it not so? Ah, you can see them cut the 
wheat from the window,” he added to a tall 
young man lying on a bed by the window, 
and gazing out occasionally with a discon- 
tented face at the men harvesting in the dis- 
tant field. u That is hard, but God sends our 
trials. Who knows why he sent this one?” 
By and by he asked to go to the field where 
the men were working. 

“ Oh, yes, Father, if you like to go I will 
send Jeannie to show the shortest way,” and 
presently a shy little black-eyed creature ap- 
peared, well pleased with her errand, knowing 
that sugar plums grew in Father Dutton’s 
pockets. 

“ We will soon have dinner,” Mrs. Martone 
announced as they left the house. 

“ Then I will come back with the men ; I 
cannot disdain the good dinner I find always 
here,” he answered her, smiling, and followed 
the child down the path through the orchard, 
leaving unwonted commotion in the house, as 
10 


138 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


the delighted housewife brought forth her 
finest linen, her choicest fruit, and crispest 
pickles, in honor of his coining. 

Jeannie received the coveted sweets, and 
hurried back with a child’s delight in the un- 
usual bustle, while the priest, with a kind 
inquiry to each sturdy mower as he passed, 
walked directly to a corner of the field where 
Gaston Bernard, with a strong, even sweep, 
was leveling die yellow grain. 

“ ’Pears as if he’d got somethin’ to say,” 
said one of the men, as they all gazed after the 
visitor with curious eyes. 

“I reckon he has,” some one answered; 
“ Father Dutton hain’t the kind to hunt a man 
out a-purpose unless lie’s got somethin’ on his 
mind he wants to get rid of. They say Gaston 
is a-goin’ to marry Ellen Bernard soon. Like 
as not it’s about that.” 

Gaston uttered an exclamation of surprise 
when he recognized the old man coming to- 
ward him, and asked hurriedly, after a short 
greeting, if any one were sick. 

“ Not any one,” was the answer. “ I came 
down here after a little visit to John ; I wanted 
to see that you were all industrious,” and he 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


139 


laughed as Gaston’s face relaxed into an ex- 
pression of relief. 

‘‘ The wheat is heavy,” he went on. “ It is 
sooner to ripen here than at the uncle’s farm. 
He told me yesterday it would be a week be- 
fore they could cut.” 

“Did you see them yesterday?” Gaston 
eagerly asked. “ Were they well?” 

“ Yes, they were well. I think it must be 
that they miss you. Ellen told me the red 
cow liked not for any one to milk her but 
you.” 

“ Did she say that?” the young man asked, 
a slow flush mounting to his brown face. “ I 
miss them, too.” 

“ When shall it be, my son ? Have you not 
settled the day with the little one ? It is time 
you had a wife,” and he looked keenly into 
the black eyes as he spoke. 

There was a pause, and then Gaston looked 
up and answered with a perplexed air : “I 
don’t know what to say. I’m afraid to ask 
Ellen. Somehow or other she seems sort o’ 
far off. She’s better ’an me. I know I ain’t 
half good enough,” and he dropped his scythe 
and stood crushing the grain from the stalks 
with the heel of his stout boot. 


140 


VENI/ VIDI! f 


“ But this is foolish,” the priest said, with 
gentle impatience. “ Why is it she should tell 
you no ? Has she not always known you ?” 

“Yes — but — Father, I don’t know what 
makes me think she ain’t a-wantin’ to marry 
me.” 

“You cannot think she would marry any 
other one?” Father Dutton asked so sharply 
that Gaston glanced up quickly with a startled 
air. 

“ Oh, no, I don’t think so ; I don’t know of 
anybody.” 

“ Well, then, get this foolish notion out of 
your head. Go and ask the child — the sooner 
the better. She is angry perhaps that you 
ask not before. Wait not a day ! Let me 
publish your bans on our Blessed Lady’s Feast, 
next month.” 

His earnest persistence aroused Gaston to 
the necessity for action, and, as they obeyed 
the summons from the big bell, and walked 
together toward the house it was arranged 
that Gaston should go to the farm that very 
night. 

“Whateffer it was that puzzled him dees 
day it ees gone,” Baptiste said to Mathilda 


VENI! VID1 ! ? 


141 


that evening. “ I knew he was gone to Mar- 
tone’s, for he brought back de tuleeps.” 

11 Shame at you to pry eento hee’s ways ! 
If he wanted such as you to know he would 
tell you,” was the only sympathy he received, 
as she carried in the tea. 

Gaston, however, did not go to his uncle’s 
farm when he had intended. A storm was 
threatening, and for several days he worked 
early and late to keep the wheat dry. 

“ Two or three days won’t make a difference 
any how,” he reflected, philosophically. 


CHAPTER XI. 

What a dismal morning that was ! Philip 
thought he had never seen it pour like that, 
and as he walked from his bed-room to the 
studio, he remembered that Rachel must stay 
indoors all day. How delightful it would be 
if he could persuade her to bring her work 
and sit with him as he painted. He would 
ask her at breakfast, and in the meantime 
he must put things to rights a little. 

Drawing back the hangings, he surprised 
Ellen, again in her dusting apparel, flour- 


142 


VENI ! VIZ) I! / 


ishing her brush daintily over his china 
and bric-a-brac. 

“Why Ellen, is it you? I thought Mary 
Ann did this,” and he offered his hand for 
good morning. 

“ She did at first,” she answered, quietly, 
“ but I was afraid she would break some- 
thing, so I have done it for several days. 
You can’t think how awkward she is,” and 
dusting an easel in the corner, she did not 
see the outstretched hand. 

“ How good you are, to be anxious about 
my things,” he said, in precisely the caress- 
ing tone he would have used to a pretty 
child or graceful kitten. “ But they are not 
worth much, and I would rather have them 
broken than have your fingers spoiled.” 

“ They are used to it,” she answered, almost 
pettishly, as she turned to leave the room. 

Her manner was strangely different from 
her bright, though often shy demeanor, and 
Philip gazed at her in surprise. “ Could it 
be she is piqued, that I have not spoken of 
the sketch since?” he asked himself, re- 
minded of his desire by the sight of the cap 
he had praised. 

“ Stay a moment, Ellen,” he said aloud. 


VENI ! VI D1 ! ? 


143 


“ When are you coming to pose for me ? Have 
you forgotten your promise?” 

“ No,” she said, with more of her old man- 
ner, “ I will come any time.” 

“ That is good,” he said, gayly. “ Why do 
you know a moment ago, I almost fancied 
you were angry with me. Come, shake hands 
with me, and tell me you are not,” and as she 
shyly did as he desired, “ When will you 
conre ? this morning ? Ah, that is better still. 
Remember, now, you must not soil these 
dainty fingers caring for such trash,” and he 
lightly touched the tips of the fingers he 
still held with his other hand. “You will 
come after breakfast,” he added, as she col- 
ored, and turned once more to leave. “This 
is just the sort of day I should like to paint 
something warm and bright.” 

“ Perhaps she will come now,” he added to 
himself, thinking of Rachel, not Ellen, as he 
went to breakfast. 

Ah, what a day that was ! It seemed to 
Philip that whatever sorrow he might have in 
this world, the recollection of that day would 
live in his heart and cheer him forever. Rachel 
came with her work, just as he had wished 
she would. She talked to him in her friendly, 


144 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


womanly manner, never once assuming the 
old indifferent tone he dreaded. Only then 
did he guess the rich intellect the girl posses- 
sed. The pure soul had ever shone through 
the clear gray eyes, but to-day it was present 
in her lightest word. 

Her presence, the very sound of her beau- 
tiful voice aided him, and as he sketched 
Ellen, who posed intelligently and patiently, 
he knew he had never before worked so well. 

His soul was filled with a happy peace ; he 
could think of nothing he desired, save that 
this might last forever. After a while Mrs. 
Dare came, and he felt no impatience while 
the loquacious little woman chattered, for her 
beautiful daughter sat near him, as she had 
done before the mother came, and by merely 
lifting his eyes they could rest on her pale 
face. Why should he care who talked? Her 
beauty was his, at any rate he thought, and 
no one could prevent his eyes from feasting 
on it while she was with him. Presently Mrs. 
Bernard entered, and even her ungraceful 
figure and loud voice did not ruffle his spirit. 

Soon he told Ellen to rest, and asked the 
others to look at the result of his work. 

Against the rich background of the Persian 


VENT! VI D I ! ? 


145 


hangings a pathetic little figure stood, one 
hand renting on the window-sill, the other 
shading her brown eyes as she looked through 
the open window. An expression of patience 
and sorrow unspeakable rested in those dark 
depths, and as the critics gazed they turned 
quickly to the girl, whose face wore its cus- 
tomary appearance. 

“ Oh, its too sad ! ” Mrs. Dare exclaimed. 
“ It makes my heart ache to look at it.” 

u I know it,” Philip answered with a puzzled 
air, u but I couldn’t help it ; I painted out the 
eyes twice, and that look would return,” and 
he dropped a curtain over the picture with a 
little shiver. “ To-morrow we will try again ; 
I’ll do something else to-day, perhaps the 
clouds have something to do with it.” 

That evening the sun set clear and bright 
in the western horizon, promising a fair day 
to-morrow, and Philip decided to go to the 
city in the morning. But at breakfast Mrs. 
Dare proposed a drive for the afternoon, and 
he reflected it would be best to finish Ellen’s 
picture at once, and take his journey the fol- 
lowing day. So he enthusiastically encour- 
aged the proposition, and worked hard all 
morning, while Rachel, whose cold had dis- 


146 


l ENI ! VI D I ! 


appeared, sang in the parlor below. He did 
not trust himself to go to her, he felt that it 
would be dangerous in his present mood, and 
he was anxious to speak to Steve before 
he declared himself. His conversation with 
Ellen was desultory and rambling. She 
seemed in a happy frame of mind, occasionally 
humming a little tune, and chattering bright- 
ly now and then. 

“ There, you may rest,” he said at last in a 
pleased tone. “ It’s the best thing I ever did. 
But you never had such an expression as 
this,” and he threw down his brush im- 
patiently. “ Come here little one, and let me 
see where I got it. Ah, not in these bright 
eyes,” and he took the dimpled chin in his 
hand, and gently turned her face to the light. 
“ These eyes are dancing.” 

She smiled as her eyes meet his, a simple, 
unconscious smile, and he felt a sudden de- 
sire to kiss the dainty, crimson lips so near 
his fingers, but, after a moment’s hesitation, 
he dropped his hand and turned again to the 
picture. “ I don’t understand it,” he mut- 
tered, and pushed back the easel. 

Alas, he had not turned quickly enough. 
Ellen’s bright eyes had seen him hesitate, 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


147 


had almost guessed why ; and a second later 
she was flying down the hall with burning 
cheeks. 

The next day Philip really left for the city. 
They had not guessed how much he had 
added to their enjoyment by his ready sym- 
pathy and genial conversation, until they 
found how they missed him that evening. 
Gaston came after awhile, which formed some 
diversions, but Mrs. Dare and Rachel soon 
said good night and went up stairs. 

While Rachel was disrobing, her mother 
came into the room, and seating herself com- 
fortably, began : 

u I had a letter from Aunt Anna to-day.” 

“Ah, did you? Is she well?” the girl an- 
swered, with little surprise, for a letter from 
Aunt Anna was no unusual circumstance. 

“ Yes, she is well, and having a perfectly 
lovely time. The Dawsons and Dents are 
there now, and she says they have the love- 
liest clothes, Emma, especially. Elise Pear- 
son is with her.” 

“ Why can’t that girl call herself Eliza?” 
and Rachel stifled a yawn, feeling little in- 
terest in Miss Lawson’s raiment or visitors. 
“ Did you say she was with Emma?” 


148 


VENI ! VIDE! ? 


“ No, with Aunt Anna. She says perhaps 
they will run up here for a few days before we 
leave.” 

“Aunt Anna always says that, and she has 
never been here yet.” 

“ She seems to mean it this time. She was 
quite surprised to hear that Mr. King is here.” 

“ Does she know Mr. King?” and the brush 
moved a trifle faster over the long brown hair. 

“ Yes, she always knows people, you know. 
She says he paid Elise some slight attention 
last year, and she was perfectly crazy about 
him. Doesn’t it strike you, Rachel, he is a 
little particular in his attention?” 

“To whom, mamma?” 

“Why, yourself, of course! Why (Jo you 
ask such provoking questions ? He has been 
positively devoted these four weeks.” 

“ It would necessarily be particular if it 
were attention at all. I am the only available 
girl,” and Rachel laughed. 

“ Nonsense ! You know well enough that 
you’ve been the only girl other places without 
receiving such marked devotion.” 

“ Perhaps the men were octogenarians,” 
Rachel answered, still smiling. “ Its only 
Mr. King’s manner, mamma, I am certain. 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


149 


Don’t you notice he is quite as nice to you as 
he is to me ?” 

“ No I don’t notice anything of the kind. Not 
that he is not always agreeable, for I am sure 
no one could have been more companionable 
than he is. Aunt Anna says he is the greatest 
favorite, and was considered the best catch at 
Newport last year.” 

“Indeed? He gains new interest as the 
letter proceeds. What more did she say?” as 
her mother rose to leave the room, her mis- 
sion apparently accomplished. 

“ Not much, except he is a cousin of Mr. 
Hendley. Oh, I forget,” and she had her 
hand on the knob of the door by this time, 
and spoke rapidly, as if in a hurry. “ She 
says Dick is going abroad in a few days. He 
will be gone three years. Good night,” and 
she closed the door with a slight bang, which, 
however, did not prevent her from hearing 
the hand-mirror shiver, as it crashed against 
the dressing case. 

“ However she decides, I’ll know I’ve treated 
him fairly,” Mrs. Dare said before she went 
to sleep. “ She certainly is interested in him, 
but I think its Dick who has her heart,” and 
with the hope that it was Dick, she dismissed 


150 


VENI ! VI DI! ? 


the affair for the night, wisely deciding it 
would be useless to urge matters. 

It was long before Rachel slept. She 
thought of her mother’s disclosure, and her 
heart was a trifle hardened that Dick should 
leave without bidding them good-bye. Then 
her mind reverted to Philip, and once more 
Dick’s image faded before his substantial 
proximity. 

Still, it was with an uncomfortable feeling, 
as if something she had been accustomed to 
enjoy were cut off from her reach, that she 
finally closed her eyes. 


CHAPTER XII. 

In thinking it over, Gaston had come to the 
conclusion there would be little difficulty after 
all in arranging matters as Father Dutton had 
suggested. It is so easy to convince ourselves 
of what we like to believe. Why should it 
be otherwise? he argued. She had known 
him all her life, and there had always been a 
tacit understanding in the family that they 
would be married some day. Perhaps Father 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


151 


Dutton was right ; she felt diffident, and prob- 
ably angry, that he had not asked her before. 
Ah, well, he would soon make it up with her, 
he would explain everything this evening, and 
he whistled as he rode along, his thoughts 
centered on the pretty maid at the end of the 
journey. 

Ellen was silent this evening, he thought ; 
but, while his uncle was asking about the crop 
on the Martone farm, and making arrange- 
ments for their own harvest, what could she 
say ? Presently the old man, with a prodigious 
yawn, “guessed he would get to his bet,” and 
soon after Martha Bernard went in to wind 
the clock, and, not returning, these two were 
left alone on the porch. There was nothing 
unusual in this, for the lad lived here all his 
life ; still both were conscious of a certain re- 
straint, and Ellen wished that it was a little 
later that she might have an excuse to say 
good night. “ The moon is late to-night,” 
she said, after a long pause. “Why wouldn’t 
Gaston say something?” 

“Yes,” he answered deliberately, looking 
about him as if he had not missed it before. 
Then rising, he came over and stood looking 
at her a minute, the light from the parlor lamp 


152 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


straggling faintly through the window onto 
the bright hair and white gown. 

“ Don’t you think we’ve waited about long 
enough, Ellen ?” he asked at last, laying his 
brown hand gently on her shining head. 
Then, as there was no response, he went 011 : 
“You know what I mean. You know I’ve 
wanted to marry you all my life. You know 
I ain’t ever looked at any other girl but you 
since you was big enough to walk. You know 
I’d cut off this here right hand if you wanted me 
to, an’ it would do you any good. Why don’t 
you say somethin’, Ellen, when I love you so ?” 

Her voice sounded hard, even to herself, 
when she answered, “ What shall I say?” and 
covered her face as she found how earnestly 
his eyes were fixed on her’s. 

“ Say you’ll marry me soon, dear — the sooner 
the better. I was a fool to wait so long, but I 
thought you wanted me to — indeed I did. 
Now, only say yes, only nod your head, an’ I’ll 
know what you mean, an’ won’t ask no more,” 
and he tenderly removed her hands, kneeling 
to look into her face. 

“ Oh, Gaston, I can’t,” she sobbed ; “ I can’t ! 
Don’t make me, please, don’t.” 

“ Why, Ellen, no one can make you ; I was 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


153 


only a askin’ you,” he said, with a sense of 
actual physical pain in his fear. “ It will 
make me so happy to know it’s all settled at 
last. You shan’t be sorry if you say yes. Why 
shouldn’t we be married now, instid o’ waitin? 
I’d feel like I had somethin’ to work for then.” 

“ Oh, Gaston, Gaston, don’t ask me ! I 
can’t ever marry you — I really can’t,” and she 
turned her face from him as she spoke. 

The young man slowly rose, stood perfectly 
silent for several minutes, then asked in a 
hoarse voice : 

“ Do you mean it, Ellen?” 

“ Yes, yes !” 

“Never, not even if I’d wait? Why, I’d 
wait as long as I live, if you’d only marry me 
when I was a dyin’. Only say you will some 
day, dear, so as I won’t have to give up every- 
thing at once’t.” 

“ I can’t, I can’t ! Oh, I wish I could.” 

“ Don’t you like me well enough, darling? 
Is that it? If you only loved me just a little 
# I wouldn’t ask no more,” and he knelt again 
as he pleaded with her. 

“ Why won’t you believe me ? I can’t marry 
you, please let me go.” She had risen by 
this, and was standing near the door, where 
11 


154 


VENIl VI D I ! ? 


the light streamed directly on her face. His 
hand detained her a moment, and he made 
several efforts to speak. Finally, as she turned 
to leave him, he asked : 

“ There ain’t no one else .is there, dear?” 

In an instant a bright crimson had stained 
her face, her neck, the very tips of the fingers 
he still held. Quietly and slowly he dropped 
the hand and turned away. The blush had 
answered him. It told him he came too late. 

His silence frightened her, and touching 
his sleeve she said softly, “I do love you, 
Gaston, but not that way. I am sorry. I 
don’t care for any one else.” 

“ I don’t blame you, dear, I’m only sorry. 
If ever I can do anything that’ll make you 
happy, just let me know. I’ve got to go back 
now, so good-bye.” 

“To-night? Oh, no, it’s so far, and so 
dark.” 

“ It ain’t far, an’ the moon’ll come up pretty 
soon. Good-bye, God bless you,” and, kissing 
her solemnly, in a moment he was gone. She 
heard his horse’s hoofs as they went gallop- 
ing down the lane, impatient with standing 
so long. Rachel was not the only one in the 
house who was wakeful that night. Still 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


155 


Ellen liad not fully realized yet what it was 
that prevented her from doing as he asked. 

“ It looks like they hat hat a quarrel,” 
Henry Bernard remarked to his spouse the 
next day. “ Gaston went off last night, an’ 
Ellen is like a ghost to-day.” 

“ Pshaw ! That ain’t nothin’,” Martha Ber- 
nard responded, “ young people is always a 
fussin. They’ll make it up again when they 
get ready. It don’t do to stick a finger in 
that kind of a pie. Now there’s Miss Rachel 
and Mr. King. They’re sure to make a match 
if they’re only let alone. But I wouldn’t 
give that for it, if any one goes a meddlin’. I 
do like to see young folks take their own way 
about things.” 

Henry Bernard felt that his wife’s judg- 
ment could not be treated with too much re- 
spect, but he gravely shook his head as she 
hurried into the kitchen to “ see if Mary Ann 
hadn’t let somethin’ burn while she was a 
talkin’. It was mighty funny if her nose was 
a playin’ her false at her time time of life.” 


156 


VENI! VIDI! ? 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Philip’s thoughts were filled with Rachel 
that day, as he sped toward the city. He 
tried hard to think of what Steve would say 
when he saw him ; he purchased a newspaper 
and made a vain attempt to interest himself. 
He called to mind his various acquaintances, 
only to find himself back at the farm-house 
and wondering what she was doing now. 
Finally he abandoned the idea of altering the 
direction of his mind, and leaning comfort- 
ably back, meditated on her various charms. 

Presently a scrap of conversation from the 
seat back of him arrested his attention, and 
listening, he heard a girl’s voice exclaim : 

“ If you mean Dick Armstrong, its no use ; 
he sails for Europe next week.” 

“ Well, I’ll have a week, anyhow,” and the 
second voice belonged to a very young girl, 
Philip decided, as they both laughed. 

“ Besides, he is devoted to Rachel Dare, so it 
won’t do you any good,” the first voice per- 
sisted. 

“ Who is she? and who said so,” the other 
returned, incredulously. 

“ Don’t you remember that tall girl at Long 


VENI! VIDI! ? 


157 


Branch, last summer? They say every man 
there proposed to her.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember. I don’t See why 
she couldn’t taken some of the others and 
leave Mr. Armstrong for me ; he’s so hand- 
some.” 

“ I think his fortune is the best of it,” and 
they both laughed again. “ Unless he’s very 
stingy you might have fresh gloves every day, 
as I heard you wishing for this morning. I 
have heard she refused him, but I don’t be- 
lieve it. That reminds me, Carrie’s engage- 
ment is announced. Had you heard it ? She 
will be married in November. Do let me tell 
you about her clothes,” and the conversation 
changed to Carrie’s trousseau, leaving Philip 
sufficient food for thought in what he had 
heard. 

He felt a singular depression at first, and 
for a little while could only believe it was 
true. Soon his reason came to bear on the 
question, and he was able to persuade himself 
his information was a mistake. “ She prob- 
ably had refused him,” he thought, “ that girl 
said she had refused every man at Long 
Branch.” Again the old disturbing thought 
came, “ Is she a coquette ? Is she only amus- 


158 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


ing herself out there in the country, in the 
absence of any other man?” But the recol- 
lection of her pure face rose before him, re- 
buking him for the very thought. After a 
while, u Why should she accept me after re- 
fusing every one else ?” But that idea troubled 
him little. 

“ I’ll do as Steve says,” he concluded, as 
the train moved slowly into the depot. 

“ By Jove, old fellow, I’m glad to see you,” 
Steve declared, after they had shaken hands 
a dozen times “ I knew you’d come to-day. 
I’ve got an invitation to dinner for you to- 
night on the strength of my presentiment.” 

“ Who’s in town to eat dinner this weather ?” 
Philip asked, quite as happy to see Steve as 
Steve was to see him. 

“ The Ingrams are home for two or three 
days. They’re going to take a western trip, 
and have stopped to shop. They have three 
wonderfully pretty girls with them, besides 
their own three. You know the old lady is 
great on having a crowd of girls under her 
wing. We’ll have to hurry, we liav’nt much 
time to dress. 

In spite of his injunction, Philip was ready 
first, and stood tossing about the various 


VENI ! VI D1 ! ? 


159 


articles on the writing table, while Stephen 
finished his toilet. 

“ Here’s a clever little thing ; who did it?” 
he said presently, interrupting Steve’s fire 
of questions, holding up a card for his inspec- 
tion. 

“ Oh, that ? A lot of us fellows had a little 
dinner the other evening, and Bartlett got up 
the cards. They were all pretty good hits. 
He’s doing first-rate, for a kid.” 

It was a menu card Philip held, bearing a 
very good caricature of Stephen’s returning 
from a sketching trip, a huge pack of sketches 
on his back, and wearing the satisfied air he 
usually donned on such occasions. He was 
waving his hand expansively, and in the cor- 
ner were the words, “Veni, vidi, vici!” 

Philip stared at them as if he had never seen 
them before. He repeated them a couple of 
times, then, seizing a pen, wrote on a blank 

card, “ Veni, vidi, ,” and inserted it into a 

picture frame over the mantel. He turned to 
Steve, who had been watching him in silence, 
and said, “The next time I see you I shall 
finish the sentence.” 

“Are you in doubt about conquering?” 
Steve returned. “ You needn’t be. You al- 


160 


VENI! V ID I ! ? 


ways were a lucky fellow. I expect you’ll 
come back with the prize picture.” Then the 
subject changed to art, and continued until 
they pulled the bell at Ingram’s door. Not a 
word had Philip hinted about Rachel, think- 
ing he would wait until he could tell every- 
thing without interruption. 

They were pretty girls, Philip acknowl- 
edged. One, Miss Ranney, he had had a 
rather decided fancy for last winter. She sat 
next him at dinner, and he felt suddenly low- 
ered in his own estimation that he could have 
believed himself satisfied with this girl when 
such perfection as Rachel existed. 

“ Still, she is very pretty, and bright as a 
dollar,” he added, willing to do her justice, 
while Miss Ranney was thinking how Mr. 
King had changed. “ Not half as nice as he 
used to be,” she declared to herself, as one 
harmless artifice after another failed to call up 
the expression of devotion he had worn when 
with her last winter. 

But eveu eleven courses will come to an 
end, if you give them time, and both men felt 
a decided sense of comfort and relief when 
they were finally seated in Steve’s handsome 
apartments at the Brunswick. 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


161 


u A nice little dinner,” Stephen declared, as 
he lighted a cigar. “ So few people under- 
stand how to give a dinner. What a pretty 
girl that black-eyed little Ingram is. She 
comes out next season, she told me. By the 
way, Phil, it doesn’t seem to me the fair Ran- 
ney has quite the hold on yon she used to 
have. Gotten over it, eh? Well, it isn’t a 
good thing to be sweet too long on one girl. 
You’d get out of practice. You were hard hit 
on Miss Ranney for a week or two.” 

“ Don’t speak of it !” Philip broke out. “ It 
humiliates me to think I ever cared for her 
shallow coquetry, when the fairest and purest 
woman God ever made existed on the same 
hemisphere ! I know now what a poor thing 
it was I felt for Miss Ranney and all the others. 
Thank God, I knew in time.” 

“Good heavens, Phil! what is it?” and 
Steve reached for the bell in genuine concern. 

“No; I am as well as you are, and don’t 
want a thing. Wait and I’ll tell you about it.” 

He told all there was to tell, and somehow 
his case seemed weak, now that it was put in 
words. Stephen listened with half-closed 
eyes, a cloud of smoke ascending with each 
breath. 


162 


VENI ! VI D I ! 


“Now!” Philip exclaimed at last, “what 
shall I do?” 

“ Light your cigar and cool off,” Stephen 
calmly suggested. 

“ Pshaw, Steve ! You know what I mean. 
Would you advise me to propose to her?” 

“ Steve smoked several minutes in silence, 
then asked, slowly, “ Will she have you?” 

“ That’s the point. I’ll tell you what I 
should like — you go back with me, and judge 
for yourself,” Philip continued, eagerly. “ I 
rely so on your judgment, old fellow, and you 
could tell so much better if you were to see 
her.” 

“No, I know enough of her, as it is.” 

“ You can’t know from what I’ve told you. 
You can’t half guess how charming she is. 
You hav’nt even asked her name.” 

“ There is no necessity for that. There 
can’t be another woman on God’s footstool 
like Rachel Dare.” 

“Do you know her, then? Where and 
when did you meet her ? Isn’t she beauti- 
ful?” 

“ Really, Phil., I don’t believe you’re more 
than twenty. Yes, she is charming — so 


VENI ! VID/f ? 


163 


charming that I proposed to her myself last 
summer at Long Branch.” 

Philip fell back in his chair like he was 
shot. “You did!” he gasped, when he re- 
gained his breath. “ Did she refuse you ?” 

“Of course she refused me, or I should 
have married her long enough before this. I 
suppose you are surprised. She’s the only 
woman I ever thought enough of to ask to be 
my wife.” 

Philip reached out his hand and grasped 
Steve’s. After he had dropped it, neither 
looked at the other for a minute or two. 

“ Now you see why I don’t care to go back 
with you,” Stephen continued. “ You must 
judge for yourself.” 

“ But from your individual knowledge of 
her, do you think she would have me?” Philip 
persisted. 

“ My good fellow, I’m afraid she would 
not,” Stephen answered, deliberately. 

“Would you advise me to try?” 

“ If the asking would be a relief, I would, 
yes. If a refusal would be a humiliation, I 
certainly would not.” 

“Well, about this Armstrong ; what sort of 
a fellow is he?” Philip asked, after a long 


164 


VENI! VI D I ! ? 


silence, during which both men more closely 
resembled smoke-stacks than any other object 
in nature. 

Steve answered in quick disjointed sen- 
tences, a slight pause between each : 

“ He’s a good fellow — rich, good-looking ; 
has any amount of old women angling for 
him. Must do him justice. He’s not spoiled.” 

After another silence, Philip asked, with 
deliberation : 

“ Do you think she was in love with him?” 

Stephen rose, and placing both hands on 
Philip’s shoulders, answered gently : 

“ My dear old boy, if she wasn’t, she will 
never be in love with any human being. But 
I must say this much for her, I don’t think 
she knew it.” 

“ Did he know it?” 

“I think not; I don’t think any one 
guessed it. 

“And knowing this, you proposed to her?” 

“ And knowing this, I proposed to her,” 
Stephen repeated, smiling down on the eager 
face. 

Two days after, Philip went back to the 
farm alone. 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


165 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ You can’t think how we missed you while 
you were gone, Mr. King. We’re perfectly 
delighted to see you back, aren’t we, Rachel ? 
I was saying to Rachel this very morning, ‘ If 
Mr. King doesn’t come back to-day I can’t 
stand it any longer.’ You know I only stay 
here half the summer under protest anyhow. 
It does Rachel good. To be sure, she’s not 
what one might call a delicate girl, but any 
one could see she’s not robust ; and she says 
she gets so tired of a watering place. For my 
part, I don’t see what could be more monoto- 
nous than the time we spend here. Now, do 
you? Do tell us the news in the city. Of 
course, though, every one is out of town, and 
there is positively no news.” 

“ No, there was not much news,” Philip 
returned, finding Mrs. Dare expected an an- 
swer. “ I am glad to get back,” and his eyes 
rested on Rachel’s face as he spoke. 

She looked a trifle paler than usual, and did 
he imagine there were faint blue rings round 
the beautiful eyes? His heart fairly leaped 
as he thought, perhaps, she had missed him 
after all. How glad he was to see her ! He 


166 


VEJVI/ VIDI! ? 


didn’t know how unhappy he had been with- 
out her until he came back and found her 
rare, sweet beauty was real, and he had not 
imagined it, as he sometimes tried to persuade 
himself. She was smiling ; she said she was 
glad to see him. 

He had brought flowers for them all — a 
bunch of pansies and the latest novel for Mrs. 
Dare, delicate pink roses for Ellen, and pure 
white lilies, without even a leaf to relieve them, 
for Rachel. 

“ I would have brought you Marguerites,” 
he said to Ellen when he presented hers, “ for 
they reminded me of you ; but, with such 
fields of perfect ones here, it would be bring- 
ing my coals to Newcastle. These dainty 
pink things suit her ; don’t you think they are 
like her?” and he turned to Rachel, who as- 
sented. 

“ Surely there is nothing particular about 
this,” she thought, as he gave her the lilies 
without a word. 

Mrs. Dare smiled to herself when she saw 
that even Mrs. Bernard had her bunch of 
crimson posies, and was rejoicing in the 
curious bowl he had brought her. 

“ Of course yon are glad to be back,” she 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


167 


said. “ I can understand wliy you should be 
with all this beautiful scenery around us. I 
should think it would delight an artist. But 
you see I can’t utilize the scenery, and it doesn’t 
do me any good. Of course I enjoy the pure 
country air, and all that, and if there were a 
few more people here it would be charming. 
Now, Mr. Dare says he would like to spend 
the whole summer here, and really I believe 
Rachel would. Did you see any one you 
knew in the city ?” 

li Yes, that is why I went,” Plnlip answered, 
quietly looking at Rachel. “ My cousin, 
Stephen Hendley, had written for me. By 
the way, he told me he met you last summer.” 

The girl’s face never changed. She looked 
directly at him as she remarked : “ Yes, I re- 

member Mr. Hendley. Every one liked him. 
I knew he was your cousin. I think I have 
heard him speak of you.” 

Philip drew a deep breath. “ What business 
had she speaking so coolly of poor Steve, as if 
he were the merest incident in her life?” 
Then he reflected, with quick self-reproach : 
“ She had probably prepared herself — she 
knew we were cousins.” 

“ Now, that I think of it, I believe you two 


168 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


look alike,” Mrs. Dare began. “ Don’t you 
think they do, Rachel ? I remember him very 
well. We got to be quite good friends. Rachel, 
do you remember that frightful occurrence 
about the horse?” 

“ Perfectly well, mamma,” and Rachel 
moved around to the other side of the porch, 
while her mother continued : 

“ Do let me tell you how we first met him. 
It was really romantic. Rachel was riding 
one morning, when her horse was frightened 
by a man lying in the road, and actually ran 
away — deliberately ran away. Mr. Hendley 
saw her coming toward him, and you can’t 
think how brave it was of him ! He caught 
her horse by the bridle and stopped him. Of 
course I wouldn’t think of letting her ride that 
horse again. Mr. Hendley sprained his wrist, 
but she wasn’t hurt. Now, don’t you think 
that was unusual ?” 

“Very,” Philip smiled, accounting, for 
Stephen’s lame wrist last year ; “ and had she 
never seen him before?” 

“ Well, yes, we had known him several 
days, but of course not very well. Did he 
speak of the occurrence?” 

“ Oh, no ; he simply said he knew you.” 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


169 


Mrs. Dare, went up stairs presently for her 
work, and while she was gone Philip had time 
to observe that Ellen also was pale. 

“ Where is your color, little one?” he asked; 
“ you’ve grown pale while I was gone. Hasn’t 
Gaston been behaving properly. If he has 
not, we must punish him, even if he be twice 
as muscular,” and he laughed, feeling unu- 
sually light-hearted, while she blushed and 
hung her head. “ Hasn’t he been here since ? 
What shall we do to a laggard lover?” and he 
took the little hand in his. 

“ Oh, yes, he’s been here. It isn’t that, 
really.” 

“ A quarrel,” Philip thought, his glance 
softening as it rested on the shining head, bent 
low over the flowers. Then he continued : 
“ Do you like the roses, Ellen ? I was afraid 
you might like something better.” 

“ Oh, no, I couldn’t,” and disengaging her 
hand she quickly left him. 

The next day Gaston came. The harvest 
was finished at Martone’s, and the grain here 
was ripening fast. The bustle of preparation 
for the important event interested Philip. It 
was all so new to him. He frequently wished 
that some of these busy men could stand in 
12 


170 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


the picturesque attitudes they unconsciously 
assumed until he had time to sketch them. 

The day was intensely sultry, and every one 
was wishing the rain would come, that they 
might have a fair start to-morrow. But the 
heaven’s suspended their fury until midnight, 
when they burst forth with greater violence 
because of their delayed action. Huge 
branches of trees came dashing against the 
house, and the rain fell in torrents. One 
awful flash of lightning was followed so closely 
by a crash of thunder that Philip sprang from 
his bed and hurried to the window, expecting 
to see the great barn in flames, but was re- 
lieved to find it quite as dark outside as it had 
been before. He fancied he saw a glimmer of 
a light under the door as he turned from the 
window and heard the sound of footsteps ; but 
it rained so hard, and the lightning was so 
constant, he came to the conclusion he had 
imagined it, and lay down again, soon sleeping 
soundly, notwithstanding the storm raged 
almost all night. 

Gaston did not sleep. He remembered the 
agonizing fear Ellen always felt during a 
storm, and listened to hear if she had been 
awakened. Presently, when one clap came a 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 171 

little louder than the rest, he waited no longer, 
but, lighting a candle, dressed himself hastily 
and went outside to her door. 

“ Ellen,” he called softly, “I am here; are 
you afraid?” 

Immediately the door was opened, and Ellen 
rushed out to him. She still wore the frock 
she had worn that day, and, glancing in, he 
saw the little white bed had not been slept in. 

“ Oh, Gaston, I was so afraid !” and, forget- 
ting everything but that he was the §ame 
Gaston on whose strong shoulders her head 
had so often rested, she threw herself into his 
arms and sobbed. 

“ I wanted to go down to mother, but I was 
afraid. I’m so glad you came. Oh, Mother 
of God, pray for us !” she cried, as the loud 
crash came which alarmed Philip. “ Oh, take 
me to mother; I must go.” 

With one arm around her, and holding the 
candle in the other hand, Gaston proceeded to 
do as she desired, feeling a sudden awakening 
of hope as the frightened little heart beat fast 
against his arm. 

“ Do you think he could have been struck?” 
she asked, as they approached Philip’s .door, 
and in her face he read that which told him 


]72 


VEN1 ! VI DI! 


? 

how vain his hopes had been. He had not 
guessed it was Philip who had won Ellen’s 
affection from him, and the knowledge fairly 
stunned him, She repeated the question, and 
he answered patiently : 

“No, dear; he’s safe.” 

“ But he might not be, Gaston,” she in- 
sisted. “ Won’t you please see?” 

He did as she asked ; he walked to the door, 
leaving her stand at the stairs with the candle. 

“ He is safe,” he said briefly. “ He is up 
and moving about the room,” He saw her 
expression of relief when she heard his words ; 
he heard a little murmured prayer of thanks- 
giving, and still his hand was steady as he 
took the candle once more, and led the way 
until she was safe in her mother’s arms. 

“ Mother of God, pray for us,” he mechani- 
cally repeated when he had reached his own 
room again. A gust of wind had blown out 
the light, and he groped his way back, an oc- 
casional flash of lightning making his path 
visible. “ Oh, Mother of God, pray for us,” 
and there in the storm and the darkness this 
man told himself he had lost all that he cared 
to live for. “ Why couldn’t I have missed 
that?” he cried, as he recalled the very tone 


VENI! V ID 1 ! 


173 


in which she had asked for Philip. Oh, it was 
hard to see the little face he had loved so long 
brighten at the knowledge of a stranger’s 
safety. He knew Philip moved in a world 
above him, “but not above Ellen,” he thought ; 
“ she’s fit for any place.” How could he have 
expected her to care for a rough farmer like 
him, when she was so dainty and lady-like 
and so far above him in education. 

“ She likes soft words,” he said, “ an’ I 
don’t know how to give ’em ; but he can’t treat 
her any kinder ’an I would have treated her.” 
Presently a disturbing thought came : “ Oh, 
God, if he didn’t love her ! but he must ; he 
couldn’t help it,” he quickly added. Still 
that vague fear troubled him. 

When morning came they found great dam- 
age had been done bv the storm. Entire trees 
had been uprooted, and the beautiful wheat 
lay with its golden head bowed to the earth. 
The river was roaring and rushing, carrying 
with it boards and rails, and branches of trees, 
and whatever it could get in its greedy flight. 

“ De river hain’t so high as it will be dees 
afternoon,” Henry Bernard said, accepting his 
losses with calm philosophy. “ If you go to 
de rapids den you will see a sight.” 


174 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


Martha Bernard, also, was able to see a 
bright side, and told Gaston “ they wouldn’t 
have so much trouble with that there wheat as 
he thought they would. Some of it over in 
the fur corner by the hill hain’t hardly hurt at 
all.” 

Every one was conscious of a restless, un- 
settled feeling that day. Nothing could be 
done until the water ran off the fields, and it 
was tiresome to be obliged to sit about doing 
nothing. 

Philip alone was occupied all day, and in 
the afternoon, when Rachel was singing, he 
felt that he had earned a reward, and went 
down to her. He had no fixed purpose when 
he went, only the desire to be with her ; but 
when she paused and turned to him with her 
sweet smile, before he knew it, or intended it, 
he had gone to her and gently told her he 
loved her. 

He told his story simply, but she knew he 
was in earnest. She started a little when he 
began, but, after that, sat very quietly until 
he had finished. Then there was a pause, at 
the end of which she turned to him slowly 
and asked : 

“ Is this my fault ?” 


VENI ! VID1 ! ? 


175 


“ No,” he answered ; “ you could not have 
prevented it.” 

“ Oh, I am glad ; for I don’t know what to 
tell you.” 

“Then don’t try now,” he said eagerly. 
“ Wait a day, a week ; I’ll wait forever, if you 
will only say yes at last.” 

“ That is the trouble,” she returned, with a 
puzzled expression. “ I don’t know that I 
will say yes at last.” 

“ Give me at least the satisfaction of wait- 
ing. Don’t tell me no at once. Wait a week, 
and I shall not trouble you in the meantime,” 
he said, not daring even to take her hand. He 
knew it was better to let her take time to de- 
cide. He understood how essentially different 
her nature was from his. 

“ If that is a satisfaction, you may have it,” 
she said kindly, and a moment later she had 
left him. 

“ My God, my God, help me to bear it !” and 
in an agony of sorrow Ellen rushed from the 
porch, where she had heard it all. Up to her 
room she flew, seized her bonnet, for her first 
thought was Father Dutton. 

“ He will comfort me,” she said as she tied 
the strings with restless fingers. Then down 


176 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


the road she ran, conscious of the river surg- 
ing along beside her, still feeling that it was 
a long distance removed from her. Great 
pieces of plank and boughs from the trees 
were still rushing swiftly down, and she fol- 
lowed their course, thinking, “ I don’t go fast 
enough ; they will get there first.” 

Gaston saw the little figure from the field, 
as she ran down the road, and, obeying a sud- 
den impulse, followed her. But she had a 
long start ahead of him, for the brook in the 
meadow was swollen, and he must go away 
up to the bridge to cross. “ I expect she 
won’t like to have me a cornin’ after her,” he 
thought, “ but it’s mighty queer for her to go 
walkin’ so fast to St. Benedict, when she 
might as well ride.” 

How far it was this afternoon ! Ellen 
thought she would never reach there. Every- 
thing was clear to her now. Oh, how blind 
she had been ! How foolish to dream that he 
might perhaps care for her, when Miss Rachel 
lived in the same house. Oh, how foolish ! 

Ah, there is St. Benedict’s at last. There 
is the church on the hill, and Father Dutton’s 
house. She could almost lancy the door was 
standing open. How glad she would be to 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


177 


see him ! It’s not far from the bridge, and as 
she stepped onto it she was conscious that a 
crowd of men on the other side were shouting ; 
it couldn’t be to her. Yes, one is old Baptiste. 
What does it mean? Is she dizzy? Is she 
falling? No, the bridge is really moving; 
she is being carried away on it. Then she 
heard Gaston’s voice back of her calling : 
“ Hold on to the railing tight, Ellen ; I’ll 
come;” and, crouching down, she did as he 
bade her, feeling safe in his promise. 

After awhile, she did not know whether it 
was a minute or an hour — she felt a jar, a 
crash, a rush of cold water, and that was all. 

Father Dutton was seated beside her saying 
his beads when she opened her eyes again. 
She was in a funny little bed with white cur- 
tains. Why, this was Mademoiselle’s guest 
chamber ! How did she get here ? Ah, yes, 
now she remembered. How could she tell 
him ? and she covered her face with her hands. 

“Did you wake up?” he asked with his 
fatherly smile. “ I must tell Hortense ; she 
has something for you to take,” and he walked 
to the door, returning with Mademoiselle 
bearing a bowl of steaming liquid. 


178 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


“ Take it, child ; it is good for you,” he said, 
seeing her hesitate. 

“But I thought I was drowned,” she said, 
sitting up. 

“ You would have been drowned if God’s 
mercy had not sent Gaston at the right time,” 
he answered her gravely. 

“ Oh, I wish I had been !” she wailed, hiding 
her face in the pillow. 

“ That will do, Hortense,” he said in French. 
“Tell Gaston to wait. Now, my child,” he 
continued, when the door was closed, “ tell me 
all about it.” 

He knew what she would say, and re- 
proached himself as he listened with aching 
heart. Why had he been powerless to prevent 
it? He had hoped Gaston would be in time. 
Why had he done so little and rested so con- 
tentedly after he had seen the danger coming? 

She was right in thinking he would help 
her. She felt the peculiar sense of comfort 
one feels after a physician has dressed a gaping 
wound, removing with kind, firm touch the 
external sting, the general discomfort, leaving 
only the deep-seated pain. 

“ Would you not like to stay with Hortense 
for a day or two?” he asked her when she had 


VENI ! VI D I ! ? 


79 


finished. “ The Sisters have come back, and 
they would be glad to have you near them.” 

“ Oh, yes, Father Dutton; may I stay? I 
could not go home.” 

“ Yes ; we will send word to the good mother 
we will keep you with us a few days. She can 
spare you ? If not, I can send Annie from the 
Convent to help in your place. Then I will 
tell Gaston what he should say.” 

“ Has she told you, Father ? Do you know ?” 
Gaston asked sadly as the priest entered the 
room where he waited. 

“Yes, my son, she has told me,” and he 
placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders 
and looked affectionately into his eyes. “ I 
can only pray for you both. I had hoped it 
would be another way, but we cannot always 
have what we hope. God knows best, God 
knows best. I would keep her here a few 
days ; it is not well she should go back now. 
Tell the mother the Sisters are here, and will 
wish to see her. Stay, she shall write a note. 
When the mother hears the bridge is gone 
she will fear the child is hurt.” 

“Is it on my account she wants to stay?” 
the young man asked ; “ I won’t trouble her.” 

“ No, my son ; on his.” 


180 


VENI! VI DI! ? 


CHAPTER XV. 

Great was the astonishment at the farm 
when they heard of Ellen’s escape. They 
never knew how near she had come to “ knock- 
ing at the door which swings between forever 
and no more.” Gaston did not tell them that, 
had he been a moment later, a huge timber 
would have struck the dainty little head and 
crushed it against the stone pier. Her mother 
was not surprised that she did not return, for 
the nuns often kept her over night with them, 
and, as they had just come back from their 
retreat, they would naturally be glad to see 
her. The note assured her the child was not 
hurt, so she was satisfied. 

That night Rachel told her mother she was 
right — Mr. King had been in earnest. 

“Did you refuse him, dear?” the mother 
questioned eagerly. 

“ No, mamma ; I told him I would answer 
him in a week.” 

“ Was that wise, Rachel ? Don’t you think 
you should have known at once if you wanted 
to marry him ?” 

“ No, I didn’t know, and I never felt this 
way before. He was anxious I should wait, 


VENI! VI DI! ? 


181 


and I told him I would,” and Rachel said 
good-niglit with an air of weariness. 

“ I hope you are right, dear,” and her mother 
kissed her affectionately. 

After she had gone Mrs. Dare wrote a long 
letter to Aunt Anna, and in the morning sent 
the boy to the office before breakfast, that he 
might be in time for the first mail. 

Philip’s conduct those few days was perfect. 
He never hinted the most remotely to his pro- 
bation. He was bright, talkative, considerate. 
He did not harass her with his love, as most 
men would have done, and his forbearance 
pleased her. 

Three days after Mrs. Dare had an answer 
to her letter. They were seated in the parlor 
and Rachel was singing. When the song was 
ended she began : 

“ Aunt Anna says Dick has gone,” and there 
was a ring of actual exultation in her voice ; 
“ and ” — in a slow tone, very unusual for her — 
“ your father will possibly be here to-morrow 
evening.” 

u Does he say so?” Rachel asked. 

“ Not positively, but he says be prepared 
for a surprise.” 

Philip was joyous, radiant, buoyant that 


182 


VENI ! VIDI! ? 


night, after he heard his rival had gone. She 
had refused him then. He hummed a little 
tune as he undressed. He wished he were a 
boy that he might turn somersault, or stand 
on his head, he felt so ridiculously happy. 

“ Poor old Steve,” he thought, “ it will be 
hard on him at first.” Then he thought how 
delightful it would be to have a house of his 
own. It was so long since he had lived like 
other people. “ I expect she will like to 
travel at first,” and he fell asleep, wondering 
where she would like best to go. 

He awoke with the sense of something de- 
lightful about to happen. He could not stay 
in the house to-day ; he must do something 
unusual ; he would go for a tramp, the morn- 
ing was so bright. 

The afternoon was spent with Rachel, read- 
ing aloud as she and her mother worked. 

“ I am expecting papa ; I must make myself 
very fine in honor of his coming,” Rachel said, 
when he protested she was going up stairs too 
early. Supper was postponed until the boy, 
who had been sent to the station, should have 
time to return. 

“ I shall go down to the road to meet him,” 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


183 


Rachel said presently, gathering up her long 
gown and running lightly down the lane. 

She looked positively regal this evening, 
Philip thought ; the diamond ornament in her 
hair suited her. She should have a tiara when 
she married him. Oh, if the week would only 
end ! 

Standing there at the gate she heard the 
carryall coming. It was quite dusk by this 
time, and she could not see distinctly. Yes, 
her father was there. There were two figures 
in the carriage. She would surprise him, and 
she stepped out of the clump of lilacs where 
she had stationed herself. A tall figure sprang 
out, calling, “ Drive on, Ben,” while she mar- 
veled at his agility, and ran to meet him with 
both arms outstretched. 

“ Dick !” she gasped, seeing her mistake a 
moment before she reached him, and a second 
later she was folded in Dick Armstrong’s arms. 

Oh, the bliss of that moment ! Then, and 
only then, did she guess why she could not 
say yes to Philip. If he had gone, and she 
had never known, or known only when it was 
too late. 

They had no idea how long they were there. 
Dick explained how her mother had guessed 


VENI ! VIDI ! 


184 


? 


what her decision would be, and had written 
Aunt Anna in time to prevent him from going 
abroad. Finally Rachel saw the lamps were 
lighted within doors, and persuaded Dick to 
come with her into the house. 

To one person waiting the time was inter- 
minable, while the other took it very compla- 
cently, considering the fact it was her husband 
she was expecting. 

Not until they had almost reached the door 
did Rachel remember poor Philip inside. 

“ Oh, Dick, that man is waiting for his an- 
swer. I am ashamed to go in when I am so 
happy.” 

“ I am his answer,” Dick replied. “ Hap- 
piness is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

The moment Philip heard the name of the 
newcomer he knew there was no hope for him. 
The air of pride with which Rachel introduced 
him was enough. He often wondered after- 
ward how he managed to sit at the table that 
evening at supper, and see her look at Dick 
with that happy light in her eyes. Why had 
he not seen she could never love him ? 

The next day he asked to see her a few mo- 
ments that he might speak to her again before 
the week was out. She saw that he knew. 


VENI ! VIDI ! ? 


185 


She read the difference in his manner from 
the air he had worn before. That had been 
an eager, hopeful boy ; this was a disappointed 
man. 

He thought he never loved her so well as 
when she told him she could not marry him, 
Shb did not try to tell him how sorry she was, 
but he knew. She told him all about Dick, 
and Philip felt that he would give the world 
to have clasped her close to his heart at that 
moment, and held her there. But he only 
pressed his lips to the slender hand she gave 
him in farewell, thanked her for her patience, 
and was gone. 

The next day Steve received a letter, asking 
him to meet Philip in New York — that he 
would sail for the old world the following 
week. If Steve cared to accompany him, tele- 
graph, that Philip might engage passage for 
both. 

That was all ; but Steve’s eyes were moist 
as he read. “Poor old Phil; I hoped she 
would have him.” 

Going to the mantelpiece he took down the 
card Philip had placed there, and, moving to 
the table, took up a pen ; but before he had 
13 


186 


VENI! VIDI ! ? 


written a word he paused, and, laying it down 
again, said : 

“ No ; I’ll let it be as it is, ‘ Veni, vidi, ” 

Her name was never mentioned between 
them. Philip never told him all. They were 
in Bruges when her wedding cards reached 
them, and then she had been married several 
weeks. 

THE LAST. 

What a gratification it is sometimes to be 
able to thrust our fingers through the veil 
kind Providence spreads before the future ! 
Quick ! let us take them out, and peep before 
it is closed again. 

Ah, I see Philip King, with a happy wife by 
his side ; on his other hand is Stephen Hend- 
ley alone. 

I see a grave, bright with flowers, where a 
white-haired priest sleeps his last sleep. 

I see a brown-eyed nun, whose golden hair 
is shorn, and hidden under a white cap ; inex- 
pressible peace lives in those gentle eyes. She 
is teaching a child who bears the name she 
once bore in the world, “Ellen Bernard.” 

Gaston, too, has found comfort. 

But this is long, long after. 



























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